Seasons Of Love
by celcette
Summary: The thing about being in love with your best friend? Sometimes, it takes years to know you are, in fact, in love with your best friend. And a few more years to get it right. A story about young love and its life and tries. QuinnxMike: Fabang. AU
1. Prologue

**Author's Note: **Here's the prologue to my Fabang fanfic :D I currently have the first chapter already finished, and the next two mapped out and planned. I'm trying to get better at finishing stories, so for now, I'm keeping my expectations of its length to 10 chapters, but it can and will most definitely change. Dedicated to my two Mike's who always continue to inspire my Fabang shipper heart. Special thanks to Fel, who is helping me through this story by editing it

_Prologue_

Miss Porter is, by very definition, a Lima Loser. Born and bred in the self-proclaimed "cow town", her dreams are never from that of delusions of grandeur, but rather mediocrity. But, again, she didn't have the 'fight' in her others did. She yearns for the familiarity of the blue collar town, thrives on the idea of growing old in a white picket fenced home and the comfort of knowing her children would grow the same way. Of course she understands this life to not be one most kids aspired to have. She, however, learns this through her small, unknowingly impressionable, students.

Some often mock her for choosing to teach the first grade. Maybe they have some sort of point. It isn't nearly as challenging as the job of a high school English teacher. In fact, she would be a perfect fit for that very job, having earned a degree in Literature from the Lima Community College. But something about being a first grade teacher _appealed _to her. For it is in the confines of her classroom that she witnesses the starting point of her children's journeys.

Observing the children easily becomes a habit. Not only were some wildly entertaining, but so much could be told from the way they interact with each other. Certain friendships, she could already tell, would fizzle as time goes on. Others seem to fit the already set social hierarchy, and therefore would last, depending on the child's aspirations later on. And then there were the… special ones. Now, she doesn't doubt the intellect of the children. By all means, they have minds far more creative than any adult's, but these special friendships, or rather special connections, often go unnoticed by the children themselves. Maybe she sees being too imaginative herself, but she sees the special bonds that form and likes to believe they'll last. And that they'll make for a great story.

Three weeks into September, one of these connection piques her attention as she sits idly and watches her students from the window overlooking the park: Mike Chang and Quinn Fabray. As individuals, both children already capture her full attention, but for all the wrong and completely different reasons.

Quiet and kind is how she immediately sees Mike Chang. It takes him sometime to break into the class socially. In fact, he only ever really captures the males' acceptance upon being able to hurl a football across the park towards another young boy, Finn. Since then, he's been welcomed into the 'bang gang' as Noah Puckerman so affectionately calls himself, Finn, Matt, Artie and now Mike.

Sometimes she wonders if Mike even _likes_ being included. He seems perfectly content flipping through graphic novels (the first grade version, of course) or building robots with Lego. He often just stares at people, really, with his wide, dark eyes as he takes in their words. Maybe that's why the "bang gang" like him so much. His silence is refreshing, and quite honestly, she finds that it's needed.

More often than not, Finn, Matt, Artie or Puck would speak to Mike individually. Take away the grunts, nods or tiny comments of acknowledgement, and he's practically mute all throughout. It's in those conversations that tidbits of their own personal thoughts or issues come out that had been hidden before. Finn would drift from his oh-so intellectual thoughts on candy wrappers and onto the topic of his dad and how he never quite understands why he isn't around. Matt would dive right into his daily rant about the lack of pop tarts in his lunch box. Artie would reveal his own speculations on the disease known as "cooties". Puck would begin grilling Mike about his own problems before, eventually, falling into a conversation about his absentee father.

At first, it seems to Miss Porter that this is all coincidental. Silence didn't equal a good friend, did it? Turns out, his silence vocally can be trumped by his actions. During their lunch break, she overhears Finn and Puck bragging about Mister Chang Senior taking them out for Dim Sum. But what truly catches her attention is when Mike offers to share his dad, so long as he got first dibs on all the video games. He says they are his brothers anyway.

It's then Miss Porter becomes intrigued by him.

She doesn't see the appeal of Quinn Fabray. Maybe because she represents everything she loathed about Lima: the conventional upbringing, the need to relish one's glory days in their youth and just her obsession with her looks in general. It doesn't escape her that she's merely a child, her personality can change tremendously, but at this very moment she doesn't see why she's well-liked. Well, she does, sort of. She has shimmering yet classic shoes that Santana Lopez practically yanks off her feet. Not practically-she _does_. She makes a mental note to speak to her parent's about her kleptomaniac tendencies at the next PTC.

There's also that classic, all-American girl beauty feature-she would grow up to be uncommonly pretty, Miss Porter already knew. That was another reason why she became increasingly popular in a matter of days. But her obsession with mocking the loud, enthusiastic Jew known as Rachel Berry, or to untangle her blonde curls every thirty minutes or so makes her unlikable in her eyes. Not that she'd ever say it.

She sees her as vain and shallow.

She meets Judy Fabray, and ten minutes into the conversation, inhales her breath deeply and the palpable scent of alcohol fills her nostrils. She drones on and on about her days as Miss Ohio, and how she expects young Quinn to achieve the goals they had set. Her eyes land on the noticeable deep bruise covered by at least three types of foundation. Her eyes then shift to Quinn, who sees this curiosity and pipes into the conversation boldly, the confidence she often had not waning as she speaks to her.

She changes her mind. Quinn isn't vain and shallow-she's strong and complex.

One day, on her way to the teacher's lounge with a cup of coffee, she spots two tiny bodies sitting against the brick walls of the hallway. Stopping mid-way, she opens her mouth to usher them out. They're supposed to be outside with the rest of her class for their 30 minute recess.

"He doesn't love me." She hears Quinn's soft, thin voice murmur into Mike's shoulder. It barely takes Miss Porter a split second to register exactly who 'he' is: the current object of her affection- Finn Hudson. Quinn's ears practically had steam coming out of them when she spotted him and Rachel touching hands at the bottom of their desk.

"So what?" Crinkling her eyebrows, she wonders when she's ever heard Mike Chang sound so cold and uncaring-the boy usually oozes with empathy whenever he speaks.

"He should love me."

"He's not thinking-"

"I just want somebody to _love _me." She cringes at the heartbreaking tone and the sound of a sniffle enters her ears. And then two. And then three. She realizes Quinn's crying. Hard. She should intervene- any good teacher would do so, but her feet feel drilled to the ground, her eyes transfixed on the unlikely development before her; Quiet and shy Mike Chang comforting strong and complex Quinn Fabray. It's both odd and absolutely intoxicating.

"_I _love you."

"Why?"

"Because… The lemon hair," Miss Porter bites back a snort of bedeviled amusement. She sees Quinn raise her tear-stricken face from his shoulder, eyebrows fussed together.

"What?"

"Lemons are yellow."

"Your point being?" _The girl is too formal for a first grader_.

"Your hair is yellow, too."

"You're yellow, too." Quinn gestures to him. He shrugs.

"But your hair is yellow."

"So?"

"I like lemons," he returns simply.

"Again; _so_?"

"So, I like you."

"You said you love me," Quinn points out.

"I do."

"Why?" she asks adamantly.

"Because your hair is yellow, like lemons" Mike says slowly, as if he's speaking down to her, as though his slowed speech will make his words seem clearer. She catches a tiny scowl on the little blonde's face. She thought so too.

"That makes you like me, why do you love me?"

"Why shouldn't I?" The back and forth makes her smile, she barely thinks about moving from her spot anytime soon. Maybe she should start dating that accountant from Willa Wenchester's mixer. To be entertained by two children speaking about lemons is sort of very sad. Even for her.

"You answered my question by asking me something,"

"Can't I just love you?" There's a long pause. She glances over at the pair. Quinn's helping herself up, Mike's gaze following her movements. She brushes down her frilly dress, shaking her head sharply.

"No,"

Later that evening, as Miss Porter shuffles in bed, hearing the conversation over and over again in her head. For two kids, the conversation seems strangely mature, toss aside the reference to lemons. She smiles at the witty banter, snuggling closer to the comfort of her pillow, imagining all the ways their story can unfold.


	2. Stars Don't Shine Like We Do

_Camp Rochester-Fields is an annual summer camp program for the youth, ranging from ages ten to sixteen. Camp Rochester-Fields, known as CRF by the locals and campers, is where youth are taught useful skills such as first aid as well as a safe haven to have fun, create new friendships and grow to the best of one's ability._

This is the exact description of Camp Rochester-Fields on the pamphlets, website and Wikipedia page. It's the formal way of seducing parents into entrusting their kids to a bunch of strangers for an extended period over the summer.

To Mike Chang and Quinn Fabray, however, this description doesn't even begin to describe CRF. It leaves out the most important things; the delicious home fries served during lunch, Annabelle Rochester and Dylan Fields and last but not least, how CRF acts like a seasonal family. The one time of year when they're not _completely _alone.

It's perfect, considering Mike Chang and Quinn Fabray have a seasonal friendship, as the latter would jokingly call it. Each summer, the pair would escape to Camp Rochester-Fields five cities away from their home town, equivalent to approximately five hours of driving. It's been that way since Frannie Fabray moved out. Quinn felt, simply put, lonely. And Mike took it upon himself to shatter any negative emotion by inviting her to CRF. To not worry and in the least sense get her mind off things that caused the negativity. Since then, it's become a tradition… and an excuse to have one summer _just _for each other. Summers in CRF always feel timeless: Cheerios, Football, friends- they don't exist. All they have to think about is the stars, camping, bon fires and everything they wouldn't be thinking about back in Lima.

It's quite the eye opener. Each summer always leaves them with something to hang onto until the next summer. Something to make them look forward to that one time a year when they can just be themselves without any worry. Except for this summer. It would be the last. They don't talk about it much, if at all. Summers in CRF are supposed to be light and easy. Something to look forward to and anticipate, but only to savior the memories and not bring up after. Especially when it's the very last one they'll ever have.

As, in two months time, Quinn will find her way back into Finn's arms, back into who she's _expected_ to be with, and Mike Chang into those of the rest of the bang gang, minus Artie. Artie isn't one of them. Mike likes to think they just grew apart. It doesn't escape him that they "grew apart" weeks after Artie's car accident. It's easier to ignore their folly as friends, as the notorious "bang gang".

In two months, they won't have their nightly star gazing expeditions. In two months, Mike won't pester a sleeping Quinn out of her cabin and onto a tiny hill to watch the sun rise. In two months, Mike and Quinn will lose each other forever. There's no escape from the outcome. It's inevitable.

The dancing football player denies this reality completely. It makes being this close to her, breathing in the scent of lavender body wash, easier. It makes the tiny twinge of hope he has in his heart continue to believe that by some _miracle_ she'll continue to be his Quinn. Yes. _His_ Quinn. Because even if she wears Finn Hudson's letterman jacket and is Coach Sylvester's yes-girl, where it counts, she's _his_.

Mike doesn't think hate Finn. He's _Finn_. More than anything, Mike _loves_ Finn. He is easily one of his best friends, the leader of the Bang Gang and a brother to him. He has been since the first grade. It's Finn who signed his name, in really messy cat-scratch, on the sign up sheet for the fifth grade talent show. But it's also Finn Hudson, one of his best friends, the leader of the Bang Gang, a brother to him that shamelessly takes Quinn Fabray for himself.

At exactly 11:46 PM, two sixteen-year-old bodies lay down on the grass one summer evening. Stars twinkling down on these bodies, they stare up at the dark night sky as a gentle cool breeze brushes by them. Arms laying at their sides or over their stomach as they cross their legs at their ankles, they watch the blackness. It's a ritual of theirs, one Mike Chang had initiated. Quinn Fabray needs something to look up to- he decides stars are the best and brightest option.

"Gemini."

"Andromeda."

"Pisces."

"Hercules," Mike pipes up, raising his finger to trace along the constellation.

"Ugh," Quinn's face scrunches up and she groans disapprovingly.

"What?"

"I hate Hercules."

"It's a constellation, not a person," he says pointedly.

"I hate Hercules," she replies coolly.

"Because of Disney?"

"Disney ruins everything."

The dark-haired boy can't seem to find a proper response. Quinn used to _love _Disney. He wants to mention it, to somewhat acknowledge that he _remembers_. He doesn't. Instead, he takes his bottom lip between his teeth to silence himself. Cracking his knuckles, Mike finds his mind drifting.

"What are you thinking?" Mike's gaze doesn't hesitate to move from the stars to Quinn's. Those are the brightest ones he'll ever see. Quinn is staring at him expectantly, chewing the bottom of her lip. She repeats the question.

"Why do you want to know?" he challenges lightly.

"I like to know what you're thinking."

"You like to know everything,"

Quinn doesn't take much offense in this. It's true. Shrugging, she inches closer, eyebrows raised expectantly. "Come on, Lime. What are you thinking?"

"Why do you care so much?" he looks right into her eyes, as if he's questioning their entire friendship, their entire being rather than asking a simple question.

"It's you," she replies nonchalantly. "I care about you,"

Mike feels his heart skip a beat. It would feel better if she meant that comment to do just that, instead of simply to justify her enquiry. "Kind of selfish, Q."

Her eyes narrow into slits for one of two reasons. One, Mike is supposed to be the one person, the _one_ man, who sees the good in her. Two, Mike is also the only person who ever truly sees the bad, and calls her out on it. Either way, she feels vulnerable. Naked, to a figurative extent. In some way, she's grateful her and Mike's friendship only lasts for one season every year. She doesn't know how she could handle having him know her inside and out, and have it as his disposal, for a full year. Or longer.

"How am I being selfish?" She screeches, sitting up from the grass, temper already flaring. She avoids looking at him, keeping her eyes transfixed on the field of grass ahead of her.

"Do you really have to have everything? _Know_ everything?" he argues back, voice calm and collected. He isn't the silent, timid running back overlooked by the rest of the high school population when he's with her: he's opinionated, honest and _painfully _observant. Everything Quinn wishes Finn could be. Not that she'd say that. Or even really… admit it to herself.

"Is it so wrong to want to know?"

"It is when my thoughts are _mine_."

"So you can't share what you're thinking?" Mike sits up as well, touching her shoulder gently with the palm of his hand. She brushes him off, adamant to get her way. To be _right_. Heaven forbid Quinn is ever be _wrong_, because she's Quinn fucking Fabray, and she can _never _be wrong.

Maybe she _is _selfish.

"I don't want to."

"But I want to _know_." Her tone grows from angry to whiny in a split second. She sees the corner of Mike's eyes twitch, and she instantly realizes how irritating she's being.

"You don't."

"You can't just tell me what I want and don't want."

Mike sighs. He can never really win with Quinn. Tearing his eyes away from her, he grasps a handful of grass and rips it off the ground. It's a habit that gets under Quinn's skin-she's a firm environmental freak. He does it for the simple satisfaction of achieving just that.

"_Lime_." She's touching his shoulders with her hands now, crossed over one another as she rests her chin on his other one. He stops at her touch, rendered helpless. Her hands move from his shoulders to his waist, wrapping her arms around his abdomen and lightly squeezing. Damn her. Damn her to hell.

"_Lemon_," he chokes out, feigning indifference to their position. He's held her, touched her, in much more breath-taking ways in the past, but something about the way she's holding him is different.

"If I promise to let you in on a secret, will you let me in on what you're thinking," Quinn proposes, breathing heavily into the crook of his neck. He contemplates it, finding her hands and touching them with his own, absently drawing patterns on them. He feels goose bumps from Quinn's bare arms rise on her skin. His imagination works its magic again and he's left thinking that it could be because of _him_. Shaking his head internally, he fights off the thought- its just his imagination.

"Okay," he concedes.

Quinn's lips form into a semblance of a grin against his skin. She enjoys hanging onto Mike. Somehow, all negative emotions disappears almost immediately every time. It's like his touch sucks in every bad feeling, every bad thought, and she's left as blissfully good as ever before. "So," she begins. "Finn called"

"You're breaking rule number 4," Mike interrupts. Yes, rules. As Quinn, ever the paranoid, emotionally cold girl of sixteen, set rules. Prior to their friendship, Quinn set rules. Boundaries, if you will:

1. Always say "star light star bright, Mike/Quinn wishes for 'insert wish here' tonight" just before they fall into a deep slumber under the stars

2. Share all food and drinks (this includes bacon. Mike fought tooth and nail for this privilege, and up to this date he makes sure to enforce it, just to see Quinn's temper flame up)

3. Never share blankets while star gazing, or beds while in the same cabin

4. The rest of the world doesn't exist when they're together. Including and especially the people in Lima, Ohio.

5. Do not cross the 'friends' line

"Do you want to know or not?" Quinn snaps.

"You made those rules, Lemon."

"And so I can break them, Lime. Anyways, like I was saying before you oh-so rudely interrupted," she points out cockily, readjusting her grasp on his waist. "Finn called,"

"You already said that," Mike whispers.

She chuckles, deciding to not argue any further. "He wants me to come home early." It comes out almost silent and, sadly, not the comfortable kind. Quinn already feels Mike shifting against her body. She doesn't have to see his face to know exactly what he's feeling. This awareness, this familiarity. It's both a gift and a curse. "I said no."

"Oh?" inquires Mike.

"Yeah."

"What did he say?"

"He asked me why I didn't want to."

"Why don't you?"

He's waiting. It's killing him. He wants to hear it so badly. He wants to hear her say it's because of _him_.

"I promised a secret, not an explanation" Quinn diffuses reason to question for the answer all together.

Mike bites his lip, scared of himself. Quinn always manages to take his mellow emotions and heighten them. He doesn't enjoy feeling all too much, especially when those feelings aren't the enjoyable ones. He finds it all… consuming and _toxic_. But he enjoys her, so he welcomes such strong feelings with open arms. "I guess you did."

"Your turn-what are you thinking?"

"It's hardly worth mentioning," he pipes in.

"I still want to know," the blonde pushes.

"I was thinking about how much I'll miss camp," answers Mike. "About how I'll miss it for all the wrong reasons," he continues further, playing with her hands. They're so dainty and that he wonders how Finn's own large rough hands haven't managed to crush them.

"Wrong reasons? What wrong reasons?" She moves her body so that she's not sitting across from him, hazel eyes looking inquiringly into his own. His lips curl up into a smirk.

"I promised you a secret, not an explanation,"

He wins this argument and claims breaking rule number 3 as his grand prize. For once, she doesn't protest. The time between then and the sun rising is spent with both of them laying down on the grass, a single blanket covering both of their bodies. He's holding her tightly in his arms, her head pressed against his shoulder as they both watch the sky above slowly turns into color, his subconscious hoping he could take this night and have it over and over again.


	3. Let Me Tell You A Story

**Author's Note: **Gah, I seem to forget to mention that this story is very AU. Clearly, some facts stay, while others don't Furthermore, based on my outline, it's just a couple more chapters before we move back into McKinley and involve the rest of our Gleeks. Woo~ So we'll finally see the state of Fuinn as a relationship, Mike's friendships and how they often deal with the seasons which they aren't friends. Thanks to everyone who's liking/supporting this story. Remember: review. They make me smile

_Let Me Tell You A Story_

To say that Annabelle Rochester lives for summertime is an understatement. Not only is her pocket just a little bit heavier with the full payment of each camper's tuition, but it's also when she truly _lives_. The rest of the seasons are spent managing her grandfather's diner just off the highway with Dylan Fields, the love of her life and lifelong best friend.

Having founded the camp a good ten years ago, Annabelle has seen many campers come and go. She often tells Dylan, who somehow grows far too attached to the current campers about to leave, that it is "the same circus, different clowns". That there's not a big difference when one sees it from the grand scheme of things. To her, they are all apples who fall from the same tree. They're all just kids, they all just want to have fun. She's heard this story time and time again, and though she loves each one of them, she doesn't grow too attached. Until Mike and Quinn, of course.

She never fancied herself an emotional woman, or maternal. For that very reason, she and Dylan never planned on children. Being a seasonal camp owner, a seasonal parent figure, is enough for her. It always has been. But two years into running Camp Rochester-Fields, she's convinced she wants children. Doe-eyed, eight-year-old Mike Chang and sunflower blonde Quinn Fabray convince her of that.

There's something so beautiful about the way they interact with each other. And through the six years that she's observed them, silently watching their friendship develop. There were the more obvious things, like them bickering from dawn until dusk, or the dark-haired boy ushering her away from whichever camper offended her that day.

Then, there were the things only she could see: an outsider looking into something so special, she dared not mock it, up to this day. Through the years, she had witnessed the tiny moments that defined them, and their friendship. She witnesses Chang Junior's first defiant action against his parents at the age of thirteen: trading in his summer dedicated to tutors for _another_ year of "mind rotting, useless summer camp". She watches the ever-confident Quinn Fabray fall for the very first time: literally and figuratively.

For two months every year, for the past six years, she watches as two peculiar children grow and change. Then there's their relationship. Annabelle couldn't be fooled by the snide remarks and the endless, pointless arguments about the shape of clouds or something equally idiotic. She sees beyond it, and into the true depth of their friendship. Often times, she overhears Quinn assisting a stressed Mike in going through his summer reading list, and along the way, she reads out loud just so he can better understand it. Other times, he's teaching her to dance, to laugh at herself, usually on the heels of a night dedicated solely to tears and "why can't daddy stop drinking?", with Mike cradling her in his arms.

They're so young, so fragile, and Annabelle has taken it upon herself to protect them. Well, protect them while they protect each other. She could never underestimate the power of Quinn and Mike to care for one another. Of course, she longs for her own children, children to call hers. The issue of her not being able to bear children, however, is an entirely different matter she doesn't like to think too much about.

As per every Thursday afternoon, approximately thirty minutes after the afternoon classes have been let out, Annabelle Rochester is cooking up her signature dish: ramen. No one has the courage to tell her ramen isn't exactly the most ambitious, courageous or complicated of dishes. And as per every Thursday afternoon, Mike and Quinn take time out of their busy schedule of soccer, bickering and bike riding to feast on the homemade (as homemade as instant noodles can be) meal. And _as per every Thursday afternoon_, they come into the Rochester-Field's camp-based, home arguing.

"You're an idiot," the nasally voice of one blonde-haired, teenager girl fills the bungalow, followed by the door being slammed shut.

"Just _peachy, _Quinn" the sarcastic yet polite, careful voice of her male companion manages to be received by Annabelle. Mike always had a habit of toning down his voice when he knew others could potentially be listening in. Of course, she only learned this after eavesdropping on him and Quinn talking in private years ago.

"Oh, I thought it was _lemony_," snaps Quinn.

"Was I being _lime_?" jokes Mike. Even from the kitchen, Annabelle could already see the pair, standing in her living, Quinn bursting with shallow anger and annoyance, and Mike cool and nonchalant. She could already imagine Quinn's stern expression melt, and that signature _sincere_ smile, not the one she often likes to use on elders and children, take over her face. The camp owner can practically feel the anger simmer down, and the affectionate looks between both of them occur. And almost immediately, she knows the argument is over.

"Dork,"

"Priss,"

"Lime,"

"Lemon,"

"Cheesecake,"

"Q, cheesecake is irrelevant," says Mike, as if Quinn is a four-year-old who couldn't differentiate between similarities and differences.

"Remember this: cheesecake is never irrelevant,"

Deciding to break up the battle of fruits and food between the two, Annabelle tosses her creamy white dish rag on the island counter, making her way into the living room. Chuckling, she surveys the two with her sparkling Emerald orbs, she shakes her head, amused. "Eventually you two will have to stop these little arguments of yours," she directs it towards Quinn, more out of awareness that between the two, its Quinn who will carry forth the rest of the conversation.

"Now why would we do that?" teases the cheerleader, wrapping her arm around Annabelle's delicate, petite frame. "We happen to enjoy arguing,"

"_You_ enjoy arguing," the Asian boy pipes in, following his friend's lead and bashfully wrapping his arms around the camp owner.

"Oh, like you don't?"

"Mike enjoys anything involving you, sweetie" the elder woman pipes in. Her eyes move from Quinn to Mike, gauging their reactions. Quinn barely blinks before giving them both an easy, polite smile, whereas Mike's cheeks burn at the accusation.

"But of course he does, I'm his lemon" chides Quinn.

"I will never understand this lemon-lime reference of yours," she watches as their eyes meet. It's probably what she loves the most between the two best friends. Whenever their eyes land upon one another, something fills the air. There's a mysterious understanding that somehow isolates everyone else. It's something only they can understand, but something neither comprehends to be anything more than a look. "I made ramen," she tells them conversationally, striding into the kitchen and picking up the pot with the finished ramen inside.

"I love ramen," mumbles Mike. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him pull out a seat, gesturing for his blonde companion to sit. She drowns them out as they bicker, yet again. One can only stand listening to their petty back and forth before they feel themselves becoming light headed.

"And so the fruits have found their way to our home, Annabee" Dylan's voice rings through the walls of the house. Sure enough, Annabelle's husband of fifteen years makes his way into the kitchen, the sweat trickling down his face. Clearly, the smoldering heat of Ohio is set on making everyone melt. "What are you two arguing about this time?"

"We're _discussing_, it's an entirely different manner all together," persuades Quinn.

"Yeah, Dyl. They're _discussing_, it's an entirely different manner all together," mocks the elderly woman, twisting her fiery red hair into a messy chignon. Rolling his eyes, Dylan refocuses his attention on the two, eyes sparkling with amusement.

"What exactly are Mike and Quinn _discussing_ then?" he asks, running his fingers through his jet-black hair.

"Mike's sexist,"

"How so?" asks Annabelle. She walks over to her husband, slapping four cotton placemats against his chest, before turning back to the kitchen.

"He pulled out my chair for me-"

"I was being a _gentleman_!"

"You were being sexist. I could very well pull out my own chair. I don't need a man to do it for me,"

"Can't you at least appreciate that I was being polite?" snaps Mike, unable to comprehend why the girl always found a flaw in every little thing he did.

"How can I when it was your way of undermining my gender? Women have fought for gender equality. Who's to say I shouldn't be pulling chairs out for you, hm?"

"Is this the pre-adolescent, idealistic stage those parenting books talk about?" Dylan wonders out loud, moving around the tiny, iron white table, placing the mats in front of every seat.

"I hope not, I don't like seeing our fruits ripe," murmurs Annabelle, pouring an equal amount of ramen into both of their bowls. She sends them a cautious glance. Sometimes the two broke free from their teenage, pseudo-maturity and compare the amount of soup, noodles and vegetables they have. More than anything, she's already anticipating the day the two leave camp. It'll never be the same, that's for sure. The two are such deeply embedded fixtures in the camp, like the trees or the cabins, its impossible to imagine it commencing every summer without them.

"_Thank you_," drawls Mike, looking pointedly over at Quinn.

"Huh?" Quinn asks, bewildered.

"That's what you're supposed to say, Q: _thank you_,"

"I'm not thankful," she grumbles.

"It's the polite thing to do," rolling her eyes, she jabs his ribs with the back end of her fork.

"Just because I'm a woman doesn't mean I always have to be 'polite'" the boy's eyes twinkle with achievement, shrugging as he purses his lips.

"You saying that means you're just as 'sexist' as I am," the blonde's eyes widen indignantly, slamming her hand on the iron white table. The claws were coming out, and Annabelle decides to cut Quinn's enraged rant on gender equality short.

"Food is ready," she announces proudly, snapping at both Quinn and Mike to make their way over to the counter. The cocky smirk on Mike's face, and the redness of Quinn's, disappear and change to longing. Both find their way out of their seats, walking over and picking up their respective bowls. Mike's has the plastic, Spiderman cup purchased from Walmart whereas Quinn has the simplistic, white bowl.

"Mature, Mike" she jokes, nodding to the Spiderman colors and pictures printed along his cup. Walking faster than him, she sets her bowl down, reaching for the back of his seat and pulling it out for him to seat himself.

Laughing, both Dylan and Annabelle join the two. The lengths in which their arguments would continue on to always amused them. Then again, the two Lima residents could stand against the wall and provide entertainment, no problem.

The four sit on each corner of the small, round table, silently sipping on the salty soup. Three out of the four, that being everyone that isn't Annabelle "I'm the next Iron Chef" Rochester, nod and avoid cringing at the high amount of sodium. Midway through the surprisingly silent meal, undoubtedly because the two campers were kicking each other from beneath the table, Dylan begins laughing into his soup.

Mike and Quinn, oblivious to them being the cause of this laughter, continue on eating, shaking every now and then when the other kicks harder. Annabelle stares at her husband, raising her thin, graceful eyebrows questioningly. His eyes move from the soup, over to his wife, Quinn, Mike, Annabelle, the soup, the two teens and finally back at his wife.

"_Oh_," both teens are broken out of their bubble of oblivion, looking at Annabelle expectantly.

"Oh?" repeats Quinn.

"We were just thinking, is all," excuses Annabelle, raising her hand to swat the air to signify nonchalance.

"Remembering, actually" Dylan adds.

"Remembering what?" mumbles Mike questioningly.

"This story we heard before," answers the elderly male, blowing on the hot broth.

"What was it about?" those expressive, hazel eyes widen in curiosity, as if she would die if she didn't find out what the story is about. Annabelle's gaze immediately shifts to Mike who, unsurprisingly, is carrying that look of unadulterated amusement. She loves looking at the way he looks at Quinn, there's so much love and amusement in it, she feels her heart melt.

"These two people," Dylan begins, coughing inwardly. "They fell in love," raising her eyebrow, Quinn shifts in her seat.

"Isn't every love story like that?" she immediately critiques, only for Mike to gently shove her.

"Shut up," rolling her eyes, the blonde complies.

"Well, they didn't know they were in love. They actually didn't figure it out for a long time," supplies Annabelle, holding her husband's hand from beneath the table.

"Idiots," comments Dylan.

"Very big idiots, indeed," agrees Annabelle.

"How couldn't they have figured that out? When you love someone, you know it right away," Mike nods along with Quinn. Only blundering, dense idiots would remain unaware of something like that.

"It's never that easy, Q" says Annabelle simply.

"Yes it is," Mike defends, picking up his and Quinn's now-empty bowls, walking over to the sink.

"Maybe it is," Dylan gives in. "But they were both pretty stubborn. They were in love for decades, and only really realized it after…" he trails off.

"After what?" asks Quinn excitedly, resting her chin on her hands, watching Annabelle and Dylan.

"After all the wrong people," he responds.

"Again; they're idiots. If there's a 'right' person, you know it's them right away. You don't get fooled by the 'wrong' people," the woman only chuckles at Quinn's criticism.

"Well there was more. They went through hell; society, family, heck, even they didn't want to be with each other!" exasperates Dylan. "It's like everything tore them apart. Even themselves. So they could never really see it,"

"So? Fight for the one you want. I don't get why it's so difficult," Quinn says again.

"Not everyone is as smart as you are, darling" the sarcasm in Dylan's voice escapes Quinn. "Not everyone as brave… As confident… As realistic,"

"That they aren't," the cheerleader agrees, standing up, she places her hands on her waist, smiling politely at the couple.

"Cocky, much?" asks Mike, moving behind the girl and snaking his arms around her dainty waste. He hides his face into her hair, a light kiss finding its way to the top of her head.

"Very much," she replies, shoving him slightly. "You smell like the sun," comments Quinn.

"You smell like lavender-you don't hear me complaining,"

"Except lavender smells good, whereas you don't," returns the blonde.

"Yet you're still here," he concludes. She doesn't honor him with a response, mostly because the redness of her face acts as a dead giveaway. If only she realizes that, and if only he figures that out.

"So how does the story end?" Mike asks the couple. They look at each other, smiling mysteriously, before moving their gazes back at the two.

"You figure it out," Annabelle answers.

Hours later, once Mike and Quinn have vanished from their household, the co-owners of the camp stand at their patio. They observe many of the campers floating around the area; the younger children playing hide and seek, with the older teenagers texting on their cellphones. From afar, they can already spot their two favorites sitting beneath the great, large tree. Mike's attention is captivated by the latest Archie comic book, while Quinn's is dedicated solely to applying her eyeliner. It's so simple, so obvious, Annabelle continues to chuckle every now and again. Dylan, having put up with his wife's embarrassing snickers long enough, drops his latest golf magazine to attend to her.

"What is it, red?" asks her husband, brushing his fingers along her arm.

"Think we should have told them?" she asks.

"The end? Or the fact that it's us?" he inquires in response. Annabelle shrugs.

"That they're playing out the same story," she replies simply. Dylan shakes his head profusely, as if he has never been more sure of anything in his life.

"Let them figure it out for themselves," he says confidently.

"It won't be easy," she points out. "How many people, how many things, did we have to go through before we finally realized all we needed is each other?" Dylan stares longingly at his wife. He wishes they had their own children. He really does. No one could be a better mother, a better person, than his wife. It's almost impossible to imagine anyone else being a better mother to his children.

"No one every wrote great love stories about 'easy', effortless, love"


	4. No Night But Tonight

_No Night But Tonight_

Friday the thirteenth is the common detested day for the entire human civilization, heightened by horror movies and superstitions, but for Mike and Quinn, the thirty first of August has the ultimate doom. Sure, they often times brush it off, claiming it to be because of the shorter hours of sunlight or the approach of school, but even they can't kid themselves. The thirty first of August, at exactly 7:30AM, the large, yellow school buses, freshly washed by their drivers, line up perfectly along the front of Camp Rochester-Fields. The cool, summer breeze of the early morning blows each camper back in line, away from the distraction that summer can be.

Customary to every summer, the thirty first of August approaches. Because really, every beginning has an end, otherwise it wouldn't be the beginning to begin with. For six years, the two Lima residents both rejected and accepted the coming of this day.

They rejected it for each other. For the Quinn and Mike that they are in Camp Rochester-Fields. Two people, who compliment each other, argue excessively and pointlessly, share their secret fears and desires and live in their own little world. But it is for this very reason that they also accept the coming of the end. In that single day, something in their bodies change, and they turn right back into Quinn and Mike. Not lemon and lime, or sunshine and lavender, or the 'camp cops' dedicated to environmental preservation under Quinn's reign-McKinley's Quinn and Mike.

It's as if the ride from CRF to Lima, Ohio slowly transforms them into their true selves. The opinionated, understanding and artistic Mike turns back into the timid, judgmental, closed off Football player. He's back to his same old role as the man filling up the leftover space the bang gang had for him. He's back to abiding by his parents' strict rules and regulations. He's back to his land of order, discipline and academic pursuits, placing his dancing shoes into the back of his closet until next summer. The art and life out of him is hidden in his bedroom, and so he goes through the rest of the school year playing the role of the emotionless, achievement-driven, silent boy.

Then there's Quinn. Oh the girl certainly fell under the same transformation spell the five-hour drive brings on. Gone is the sweet, carefree and relatively happy girl, and is replaced with her alter ego: the vain, Queen Bitch of McKinley High School. A bully, at least to the verbal extent, during eight to three, and the closet alcoholics' daughter from three until the point where they pass out. Throw in the socially conscious habit and you've got yourself the perfect head cheerleader stereotype with a twenty first century, sociopolitical twist.

Staring idly at the clock hanging upon her cabin wall, Quinn Fabray watches as the small hand hits midnight exactly. Shakily picking herself up from the ground, she throws herself down on her bed, the pillows and comforter shifting to accommodate her body. Touching the golden cross, which she had finally incorporated back into her apparel this very week, she stares into the darkness of her room.

The night between the thirtieth and thirty first of August are spent apart. It made it easier for the pair. The night spent apart, as opposed to everyday being spent dedicated to each other, gives them room to slowly drain the other out of their system. The distance in such short amount of time, at the eve of their friendship ending, makes it bearable. At least, it did every summer since they arrived at CRF.

"I shouldn't call him," she whispers to herself, shutting her eyes. This was it: the true end. They couldn't very well just pick up where they left off next year. Their friendship only ever exists in camp, away from the judgmental eyes of their peers, away from the pressures that real life bestows upon them. With camp coming to an end, and Coach Sylvester already booking her to run cheer camp next year, it was useless to do so. Why work herself up over something that was ending?

Her eyes blink open, moving towards the drawer across from her. Standing up, she makes her way over, pulling it open and rifles through the last of her things until she finds it. Her cell phone. The very cell phone that she had banned the second she arrived in camp. She and Mike chose to cut themselves off from technology when they were in camp. Unbelievable and difficult, yes, but it kept the sanctity of the area intact. And really, it helped Quinn forget that her heart, her mind, is devoted to someone else completely. But camp is over, and those rules and traditions are petty and useless now.

The bright light of her screen strains her eyes. Ignoring the number of e-mails and texts, mostly from Santana or Brittany (Finn has learned that she doesn't check her phone to begin with. That or he's given up trying to pry her away from the mysterious summer camp), she finds Mike's number. Hovering over his name, she hits it firmly with her thumb.

One ring. It takes that long for Mike Chang, who is staring openly at the name so deeply imprinted in his mind, to pick up. Quinn was always adamant about their rules and traditions. He's quickly learned to abide by them. But still, he had turned his cell phone on, trying to talk himself out of calling her. The night of the thirty first is gruesome and heavy for him, but he's managed to overcome thus far. Except for right now.

Right now, his lust for just one more night with her is blurring his rational thoughts. That's all he wants: one. He knows they can't survive outside the perimeters of their beloved camp. He knows that he can't have _more_ than one. To believe so would be just idiotic. And Mike's no idiot.

She doesn't talk, neither does Mike. He should begin practicing silence. No one really cared for what he had to talk about anyways.

"Mike?" he doesn't recognize her voice. Well yes, he does. But he doesn't recognize the way it comes across. She sounds like she always does, her sweet, thin, raspy voice smoothing through her words. But it doesn't sound like his Quinn. It's killing him. He gulps.

"Lime?"

"Yeah, Quinn?"

"Quinn," she mumbles. He doesn't like it when she mumbles.

"Yeah, Quinn," he says stupidly. She can tell she's thinking about it, dissecting his usage of Quinn when she had clearly called him lime.

It's quiet again. Typically, he enjoys quiet. He longs for silence. But all he wants is to hear her talk, feel that she's there.

"Mike?"

"Yeah, Quinn?"

"Star light, star bright, Quinn's wishing for you tonight," Mike can hear his own heart pumping rapidly in his chest. She's wishing for him. He wonders if she has that same longing, begging feeling he often times gets when he's alone with his thoughts. He wonders if she ever wishes for not just him, but for them. It's unlikely.

He hangs up the phone, and in ten minutes, he's knocking on her cabin door. The dancing Football player hardly ever spent time with her on their last day of camp. He's already missing her. But he's gotten over it before; he'll get over it again.

"It's unlocked," Mike pushes it. It is, in fact, unlocked. She's sitting in the ground, knees pressed up onto her chest. He can't see her face. He doesn't have to. He already knows what it looks like.

"Come here," he obeys, sliding down onto the ground.

"Mike?"

"Yeah, Quinn" he hears her scoff in the darkness. That phrase is beginning to sound repetitive.

"It really is over," she says.

"Summer ends when it does for a reason," it comes out harsher than he means it to. He feels her shift uncomfortably at his tone.

"Do friendships do that too?" Quinn inquires.

"Do what?"

"End for a reason,"

"Yeah, Quinn"

"What's ours?" The million-dollar question. The one that still remains unanswered, even after years and years of questioning. The truth of the matter is, their changes, or rather return, to their high school personas is what's keeping them apart. Simply put, they are each other's best friend. But only when the blonde is not the reigning head cheerleader, and he not the judgmental, socially awkward fellow.

Sometimes she questions just how great their seasonal friendship is.

"Do we need one?" Mike contests, his tone venomous. "Camp's over, we'll be back in Lima tomorrow, Finn-"

"What's your deal with Finn?" she interrupts

"I don't have a _deal_ with Finn, Q" he returns, his tone mocking her for insinuating such a thing.

"Then why do you snap at me whenever we talk about him?"

"We _never_ talk about _anything_," he emphasizes coldly.

"And that's my fault?" 

"It's not mine,"

"You ignore the fact that I'm with Finn," she cringes. Just saying it reminds her of it again and again. "You ignore the fact that I'm with Finn _all the time_,"

"How do I do that?" he asks, eyebrows fussed together.

"I'm not an idiot. I know you don't like him. I know you don't want us to be together because you don't approve," at this point, Mike's glaring daggers into the blonde's face. How could anyone be so thick? So dense? The girl prides herself in being anything _but_ an idiot or anything less than observant, yet she seems to neglect the one thing that's staring at her in the face. His cheeks burn, and he's grateful that the darkness hides this very fact.

"That's what you think, Quinn? _Really?_"

"I-W-What?" she stutters out in confusion, eyes wide with unexplainable guilt. Oh how he wishes she just knew.

"I give up. I shouldn't have come here," placing the palm of his hand on the ground; he pushes himself up off the ground. The amount of emotions he was feeling was becoming unbearable. Maybe summer camp ending is a good thing. He won't have to deal with such heightened emotions ever again. He can be free, detached from the rest and _sane_.

"Mike-" Quinn begins, standing up from the ground and walking towards him, the worry and pain palpable in her voice.

"Sorry, Quinn. I-"

"Lime, don't go. It's our last night-"

"_Exactly_, it's our last night. The last. And then what do we have?"

She's rendered speechless. That hardly ever happens. Her hands find his chest. They tug on the soft fabric of his shirt, pulling him into her hold. Her arms snake around his waste, her face buried into the crook of his neck. Awkwardly standing straight, allowing her to hide in his arms, he fights the urge to respond. He needs it just as much. But to give into her would be something he'd regret. Pulling away, turning back to his cabin and letting the darkness drift him into a blissful slumber is something he won't regret.

But the urge to reciprocate dominates in the end. It always does. She's undeniable. Always has been, always will be. And he hates that fact. He hates it so.

"We have tonight," he hears her whisper. "Yesterday's gone… Tomorrow isn't ours for the taking. Tonight, it's all we'll ever have, Mike. Don't leave me, please don't. We'll never have this again. We'll never have each other again after this"

Sometimes, well, most of the time actually, Quinn exudes this maturity to her. On the day-to-day basis, be it in Lima or in camp, it's unquestionable. There's not a hint of immaturity or neediness that she portrays. But in those very tiny, yet significant moments, he sees the little girl who cried over Finn Hudson in the first grade. He sees the little girl who hides behind Rachel's dominant voice as an excuse to pick on the girl who seems to always have her boyfriend's eyes. Right now, he sees her inner, suppressed child rear its innocent head from her armor of metal that buried her.

Her words echo through his ears, and for the life of him, any will power is gone. Screw slowly getting her out of his system. Screw longing for the scent of lavender at the most odd situations. Screw wanting her, and hiding behind petty arguments to somehow get closer to her. Screw it.

Mike's fingers find their way towards her nape. They slowly slide up to the scalp of her hair. He's sure he feels her jump consciously at his touch. She wished for him; she already had him. Since the first grade when he discouraged her. Since he said he loved her, in his thin, innocent, six-year-old voice. Since before he knew himself. Breathing heavily, he looks into her eyes. Even in the darkness, they reflect the sparkle of the moonlight sky.

Cautiously, his lips hover over her own. If this is the only chance he'll have, he has to take it. Hiding behind their "just friend" façade, at least for him, was always easier. Feeling something for Quinn, especially when he only ever felt it during the summertime, was toxic. But if he has to hide his emotions anymore, he feels he might explode. Never mind the 'might', he will.

"Mike,"

"Yeah, Quinn?"

"Other side," he pauses.

"What?"

"Move your head to the other side," she gestures to her left. Raising a peculiar eyebrow, he stares at her, dumbfounded.

"I always go right," he argues

"But I always go your right, too. And jeez," she grabs his fingers from her hair, clasping them close to her ear. "I love it when my ears are being played with. I always feel weird about my hair. And I just did it-"

"You're ruining the moment, you know that" Mike points out.

"Well-"

"Okay yeah, you're right," picking up her arms from his waist; he moves them up to wrap them around his neck. "You're too short,"

"Excuse me, I'm not a dwarf like man hands," rolling his eyes, he places his free hand on the crook of her neck. Looking into her eyes for approval, she nods gleefully. "I like it there,"

"I didn't take you for a hand on the neck chick, lemon"

"Cut the sexist language or you can't kiss me,"

"I can kiss you then?" he's reading her mind. He knows the Cheerio's thought process too well. He knows she's thinking about the consequences, about just how wrong this could potentially be for her. He can practically hear her coming up with more nonchalant, confident ways to respond to such a question. The girl can be wildly predictable.

"Technically, you can do anything," it doesn't surprise him that of all things, that would be her response. Or that their first kiss, one he had secretly dreamt about in his spare time throughout the summer days would be like this. Not some grand, The Notebook-esque kiss that fits perfectly. It's bicker-filled and demanding and difficult. He likes it like this, though. Because a kiss like this, so complicated and unglamorous, is just like them, and isn't that all that mattered in the end?

"I can," finding her lips, an electrifying zap runs through his body. To think that he thought her personality is the only things that can make him feel so alive, so much raw emotion. Kissing her is an entire new level all together. The aftertaste of sunny D lingers along his lips. Figures, the girl downed sunny D during dinner all the time. Touching her ear with his fingers, running along the tip before playing with the soft spot, he feels her shiver.

She uses her arms to her advantage, pushing herself up to deepen the kiss. He was right in insisting her arms go around his neck. If he weren't kissing _the_ Quinn Fabray, perhaps he would be more inclined to remember and point it out. But he is. Oh fucking hell, he's kissing her. He moves his lips along hers. Concentrating on her lower lip, he playfully sucks on it until her mouth gapes open.

Decisively, he sticks his tongue out hesitantly, before the hunger overwhelms him. Pushing his tongue inside in a moment of pure inhibitions, he backs her up slowly, roaming a hand down to her thigh. It's absolutely exposed. Never has he ever loved her 50's inspired, skimpy nightgowns before. She tears a hand away from his neck, harshly slapping the back of his hand. Right. Celibacy club. Finally, her back falls onto her bed, their lips breaking apart.

"Lemon," he begins breathlessly.

"Fuck," such vial words coming out of her otherwise sweet mouth made him pause. It must be serious. "Just come here, damnit! Are you fucking slow or something?" he fusses his eyebrows together, crossing his arms. He did not take Quinn's insults lightly. Or at least he made sure not to. Even if he ached to have more of those sunny D lips.

"Say please,"

"No,"

"I want you to,"

"And I want you, but you're not giving me what I want, so why should I?" she snaps, voice hoarse and out-of-breathe. At that point, Mike doesn't need 'please' or to be appeased. She said she wanted him. _Him_. Placing himself on top of her, he shivers at the closeness of their bodies, and the sheer fabric of the cloth. Adjusting himself, he fixes his gaze right into her eyes, the issues regarding this spur-of-the moment action of theirs, or its ripple effect when they arrive in Lima, the last thing on their minds.

"Kiss me," she begs. He gives in. Nothing really mattered now. Even the fact that this is his one and only chance to kiss her, to be with her. To him, it isn't about the lack of time in the future. It's just about them, about how long he's desired to have her like this.

The blonde tears her lips away, directly down to Mike's jaw. He never thought his jaw could feel so much delight and pleasure. His mind begins to spin, his legs tingle. He stays put, allowing Quinn to dictate what she wanted. It's always about what she wants, and though this often presented a serious conflict between the two, in this moment, they intersect, and so he has no problems giving himself to her.

"Lime," she whispers. "H-How do I…?" he blinks, trying to interpret what she was asking. "How do I do that… Sucky thing,"

"You mean a hickey, Q?" she nods, lips still on his skin. Moving away from her lips, he nuzzles himself into her neck, tenderly placing them close to her throat. "This might mark,"

"Yeah, I know"

"Fi-"

"Mosquito bite," she soothes his worries. "Or make up," nodding wordlessly, he parts his lips; sucking on the soft, tender flesh. He feels her exhale sharply. Mike's never felt more in control, more wanted, than he does right now. As he feels her skin grow tender with his lips, he takes his teeth and grinds them on the skin. The Football player pushes himself, further nibbling on the skin.

"Ow!" Quinn yelps, slapping his head from the back. "Lime, that hurt!" she exasperated.

"Sorry," he mutters.

"Let me do it to you,"

"You just said it hurt,"

"You don't want me to?" she asks pointedly.

"I didn't say that," he excuses.

"That's what I thought," pushing him away with her strength, Mike allows himself to place his back on the bed. He didn't want to disappoint her by making her realize that she was hardly strong enough to push him down. Her chicken legs straddle his own, a light laugh escaping his lips.

"What?"

"You're cute,"

"You're cheesy as hell, Chang. Cute? That's not the type of shit you say when you're making out with someone," the amount of coarse words that fell out of her mouth surprised him yet again. Quinn Fabray, a dirty talker? Well that's an unexpected, pleasant surprise.

She holds his chin with her fingers, tilting it to his right and sucking on him with perfect precision. Damn, this perfectionist, Mike thinks to himself. The same tingles he had evoked from the blonde were now being transferred to him. He's finally getting his wish. The first and only wish he's ever wanted: her.

"I left a mark," his wistful thoughts are broken up by the comment. The dark haired boy places his mark on her left chest. He feels her heart beating quickly. He likes to know that he isn't the only one feeling the same, heart-pounding emotion. Her gaze bores right into his eyes.

"Mike?"

"Yeah, Quinn?"

"Kiss me again,"

"Yeah, Quinn,"

Those words are definitely repetitive now.

**Author's Note: **Figuring out what to do in this chapter took forever, because it basically tells me which way I will take our lovely Fabang's journey. This is where we all squeal about the kiss. I'm pretty sure everyone likes a good Fabang kiss. _But_, this certainly doesn't mean smooth sailing. Oh no, trust me, it'll get bumpier. The last few chapters have been bliss, time to shake it up. Dedicated to: Mariel, who I love and care for dearly.

Also, the next chapter is us back at McKinley! I've got one friendship already in mind for Mike, but for Quinn? Nothing yet. So any suggestions?

Did I mention I love reviews?


	5. The Lies We Make The Truth

_The Lies We Make The Truth_

Grape slushies are Noah Puckerman's favorite ammo towards the gay kid, the extremely loud, large nosed girl and the fat, black chick. Cherry has to be his absolute favorite though. That's why it comes as no surprise when he's downing a cherry slushie upon arriving at McKinley High School. The place, to "Puck" as he likes to be called, is a waste of space. He's sure that it's part of some top secret, government plan to turn them all into boring, sexless dopes who don't appreciate the sweet tunes of Billy Joel.

Yet he goes anyways. Mother Puckerman works two jobs, one as a nurse at the Lima Heights Hospital, and the other as community center organizers, so being a deadbeat like his dad is seriously not an option. Besides, it isn't so bad. The Cheerios spend most of their time working out, so their asses are firm and perfect for gripping at whenever he got bored in the hallways. Then there's the bang gang. He smirks at the thought, moving around the clutch of his truck until it comes to a halt.

One thing he'd never trade up for anything; his bros. Yes, he regards Finn as his main bro, he's quarterback, he's running back-it makes sense. But the one he definitely levels with the most is Mike Chang. Which is really weird, when he thinks about it. They couldn't be more different. Well… He doesn't necessarily spend more than a minute thinking about his friendship with Mike. That didn't exactly scream heterosexual.

The kid is quiet, but it gave him plenty of time to run his mouth with obnoxious comments about his 'badassery' or to objectify whatever hot cougar he had previously hooked up with. But more than anything, Mike's silence meant he listened. Meant someone actually gave a damn. The chicks at McKinley half listen, and spent the rest of the time gushing about how to reform him from being a stud to being the "perfect boyfriend". As for Finn, well, he does listen. But he doesn't really get it. Chang was smart, his heritage is proof of that, so he's sure he got it better than Finn. Matt, meanwhile, just doesn't seem to really care. More like he just stuck with him to be closer to Finn. No surprise again. He's used to playing second fiddle to Finn Hudson.

Ironically enough, he spots Mike Chang hanging by his locker. Grinning ear-to-ear, he slaps his hand right on Mike's spine catching his attention. The dark-haired, Asian male gives him a brief smile, nodding in acknowledgment.

"How was Asian camp?" he asks conversationally.

"I didn't go to 'Asian camp'" Mike answers simply, shaking his head, bemused. Puck sucks on his straw, savoring the taste of cherry.

"Seems like it if you've got those little hickeys," he gestures to the _many_ red marks going from his jaw all the way down to the tiny, exposed skin his shirt revealed. If anything, the self-proclaimed badass felt like a proud father. He had urged Mike several times to get himself a girlfriend. Well, he began encouraging him to be a manwhore, but due to Mike's silent protests, he settled for a "stable" relationship for the Dim Sum eating fellow. And Puck could hardly conceive the idea of Mike actually finding some hot chick to leave an abundance of hickeys all over his body in Asian camp. Mike coughs inwardly, shrugging.

"They're mosquito bites," the Jew scoffs.

"Dude, I own at hickeys. I can tell the difference," he boasts.

"It's nothing," a goofy grin immediately takes over Puck's face. He pushes Mike slightly, catching his attention. The boy's eyes were everywhere but his. Ah the look of an innocent virgin. Puck recalls the same exact look on his face when he was twelve.

"You got laid?"

"Puck, shut up" grumbles Mike, shoving his red binder into his backpack.

"How was it? Tell me everything," he begins excitedly. Sex talk always made Puck nothing short of excited. The closet dancer raises an expectant eyebrow.

"Seriously, bro. Nothing happened,"

"Who's the chick?" Mike freezes, biting his lip. His eyes shift from left to right, before shutting them completely, breathing as he tries to find the patience to deal with him.

"_Typical_," slurs Puck critically, thoughts of Mike's virginal encounters being snapped out of him when the _beloved_ golden couple enter the main hallways of McKinley High School.

Finn Hudson stood proudly and largely at the door, a large, kind-hearted smile on his face. Puck's ninety nine percent sure Quinn taught him exactly how to smile for her "subjects". On his arm, as expected, is Miss picture-perfect blonde, clad in her Cheerios outfit, smiling like one of those pageant queens he sees turning into playboy bunnies. Minus the playboy bunny part.

_That_ girl. Puck can't even begin to _describe_ how much he disliked her. Sure, the girl's sexy. She has the whole sexy but innocent, Catholic school girl appeal that made even him itch to touch her fine, round ass. But she is, by far, the stupidest, shallowest bitch at the school. Not stupid in the academic sense, of course. The girl had straight A's across the board, those of which she often boasted to him about, and bragging about how she'd make it out of the small town. But stupid because she actually gave into all the stupid things no one really cared about: the homecoming dance, the celibacy club, Cheerios and being so damn _perfect_. Isn't perfection just a tad bit over-rated?

And she's had a hold on his man Mike Chang's heart since before Puck could even down a six-pack without getting buzzed, and she has no clue.

He isn't the smartest egg in the dozen, he knows. He briefly wonders if that's even the right expression. He shrugs it off. He's sure it is. But he knows _love_. Enough chicks dragged him to some stupid romantic comedy. Apparently guys got this 'sparkle' in their eyes when he sees the "girl of his dreams" pass him by. He sees that in the way Mike looks at the little blonde girl. He's sure it's love. Or something like that.

As the couple glide past them, as if their a royal couple making their way to their thrones, he watches them. Giving Finn a nod of acknowledgment, and Quinn a mocking pout when she rolls her eyes at him, he feels something in the air.

No, not gas. Or his armpits. He made sure to use his towel to mask both of those things.

Something else.

He can't quite put his finger on it. In that moment when the couple passes both himself and Mike, there's something there. It's like there are words, emotions, being communicated through the air. There's just a feeling, like a connection he can't recognize whom has it, hitting him hard. He sees Finn standing idly there, watching as his girlfriend halted almost completely and just gaped at them both.

"Can I help you, Fabray?" he asks icily.

"Manners, Puck" she murmurs. "How was your summer?" she adds in quickly, hazel eyes transfixed more on Mike's than the person whom the question is directed towards. Didn't they go to summer camp together? Why would she be asking Mike? Wouldn't she already know? Puck shrugs the suspicion off. The girl was probably too busy putting on make-up to even give Mike the time of day.

Fuck, he really hated her. She had both of his best friends on a string, and that knowledge honestly drove Puck insane. It almost stopped him from having sex dreams about her in sex kitten lingerie, making out with Santana while being groped by Brittany. _Almost_. He's still a man; he has needs.

"Cougars, keggers and bringing up my kill streak-the usual," he answers. Summers always did leave him feeling more satisfied and accomplished than ever. The amount of orgasms plus how many big macs he jacked from his part-time job equated to him feeling rather productive.

"I see," notes the blonde. Her eyes are _still_ resting on Mike's face. She's biting her lip, he's playing with his thumbs.

There's that unspoken feeling again. Puck wonders if Gatorade really could produce estrogen. He's beginning to think like a girl.

"Q," Finn pipes into the conversation, tapping her shoulder. "We're going to be late for English,"

"Pride and Prejudice," Mike finally speaks, capturing everyone's attention. Quinn's in particular.

"What about it?" asks the quarterback.

"We're going to start reading it," replies the head cheerleader, eyes falling to the ground. Her eyes seem darker than usual, and that's saying something since the Mohawk-boy always regarded her as somewhat of a closet demon.

"We'll see you guys," the Jewish boy is sure he sees her sharp fingernail push onto Finn's arm as she leads him as far away from them as possible. The look of familiarity, followed by fondness and then guilt flashes through the girl's eyes so quickly, Puck has to look back to see it. He almost asks Mike about it. Almost.

He changes his mind when Santana Lopez passes by and bends over to pick up her pen. He could practically see his ovaries.

Bringing Rapunzel and Captain Shang together would have to wait. What would another day matter in the grand scheme of ten years?

* * *

><p>"<em>Ow<em>,"

"Pride and Prejudice? Are you serious?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Q-"

Just as Noah Puckerman is about to turn the corner, two voices stop him. Three periods into junior year, and Puck's already fighting the urge to just blow it off and throw pebbles at Sandy Ryerson from the rooftop of the building.

"You _know_ that mentioning that book would make me uncomfortable," the nasally murmur immediately registers in Puck's mind-Quinn Fabray. He remembers all the girls he's made scream; sexually or otherwise.

"Would you like to ask yourself why that is?" he pauses. That isn't Finn's voice. Nor is it Rachel's. Those are the only two people who actually talked back to the "superior" queen of McKinley. Him aside, of course. But clearly, he isn't challenging her. How could he when he is listening in on someone else doing so?

"I-Don't change the subject," stutters Quinn nervously. Peeking from the corner, he spots the two standing in the empty hallway. The classes are deep into their first day speeches, which is really just an opportunity for everyone to catch up. Or at least that's what Puck heard happened. He's sure he fell asleep the first two periods, and spent most of his time doodling his dream car on the back of his report card from last year. It would be the only pretty sight on the piece of paper, he can conclude that much.

"No, Quinn. Pray tell, tell me why that book is _so _significant?" Mike's leaning easily against the lockers, arms crossed as he defends his case. Whatever case that may be.

"_You know why_," she hisses, glancing around warily. Puck ducks his head.

"I don't, actually" Mike feigns confusion, tapping his chin.

"Stop playing games,"

Mike drops his act, and stares at her seriously.

"I'm not the one playing any games," he murmurs sincerely. "That would be you," she scoffs indignantly, shoving his chest.

"It takes two to tango. For a dancer, I assumed you knew that," her voice drips with venom. Puck has to stop himself from joining the conversation and defending his friend against the wrath of her highness herself.

"It takes two to kiss, _lemon_. For someone who's kissed _me_, I assumed you already got that much learned," Quinn immediately presses the palm of her hand against his lips, eyes blazing with worry.

_Fuck_.

Certainly that explained a lot to Puck. It explained the matching hickeys they were sporting. He's positive Finn, up to this date, hasn't fully mastered hickey placement yet. Or maybe Quinn just never let herself be marked. Whatever the case may be, Puck remains dumbfounded.

All this time, he cast Mike's over-the-top crush on his best friend's girlfriend as a stage. Some childhood fantasy he likes to fall back on when things are dry in the dating department. Not something that he would act on. And Quinn… Well, for someone who prided herself in being a good, Christian girl, she certainly had zero problems cheating on her boyfriend.

Though it shouldn't be that surprising, Puck later realizes. She often did award social repulsiveness with a slushie, pornographic images on stalls or death by cruel wit. But Mike, how could _Mike Chang_ of all people, fuck around with his best friend's girlfriend? True, Puck holds Mike up to a pedestal, his morals are far more in-depth than a number of them. But it is for that very reason that he often times came off condescending and unnerving. For someone who preached about right and wrong, and the distinction between black and white, he seemed to be floating in the greyest of grey areas.

"What do you want from me?" she asks pathetically, like a whiny, innocent, aggravated child longing for exoneration.

"Tell him,"

"I'd rather light myself on fire, thank you" she returns with a nod.

"What you and I did was wrong!" he reminds her, raising his hands in exasperation. "I know it's hard for you to understand…" the dark-haired boy trails off.

"What's that supposed to mean?" demands the cheerleader, crossing her arms defiantly.

"Are you really asking for an argument?"

"You started this when you mentioned Pride and Prejudice!" retorts Quinn.

"That's besides the point," she slams her foot on the ground like a child, he glowers like a wolf. Puck finds it strange.

"What is your fucking point?"

"Oh look, you're cursing now,"

"Like you don't," snidely responds the girl.

"I'm not the perfect, celibate Christian dating her _perfect, quarterback boyfriend_," his voice drips with sarcasm and resentment. Something Puck could never imagine Mike's voice sounding like. Mike looks right at Quinn, arms still crossed as he watches her expectantly.

"The rules change that, Mike. You know it. Lima doesn't matter when we're at camp," she begins, trying to soothe her flaming temper.

"Neither was be anything other than friends, and that was shot right to hell-"

"_You_ kissed _me_,"

"And _you_ kissed _me_ back," Mike points out.

"It was nostalgia, Mike. That's it. Summer was ending, I would have to say goodbye to camp and Annabelle and Dylan-" she lists off the many components of summer camps, words like ramen or star gazing being dropped somewhere along her lengthy rant. Puck still remains eternally perplexed by it. In some ways, it made perfect sense. Both rarely interacted with anyone while they were attending summer camp, clinging onto each other for support made logical sense.

"If that's all it is, then tell Finn," he says simply. Puck's eyes are now glued to the scene playing in front of him. As if they never were to begin with. Luckily the two are far too consumed in their own issues that they hardly noticed him hiding in the corner, eavesdropping on their every word.

"Tell Finn it was _nostalgia_. That summer was ending and that you needed to say goodbye to camp and Annabelle and Dylan," he hears the longing in Mike's voice, but also the disapproval. "Tell him the truth," The glimmer of hesitation in her eyes makes it clear it was far from a summer fling smooch prompted by sentimental value and the longing for connection.

"Why should I?"

"It's the right thing to do," she snorts, looking right at Mike before breaking into a round of giggles. She places her hand over her mouth, trying to calm the hysteria that seemed to overwhelm her body Until, of course, she drops her hand and stares at him seriously, the sarcasm of her actions being proven.

"You aren't in the place to tell me what the 'right thing' is,"

"I'm not going to lie to Finn, Quinn. That isn't who I am-"

"How can it be? You're the 'always correct, always moral compass' of your little group of boozing troublemakers, right?" she mocks openly. The boy from the corner clenches his fist.

"Can you at least acknowledge what we did was wrong?" he snaps adamantly. "In what way can you justify the fact that we spent our last night making out…" his eyes are softening, he's crumbling. The memories are so vivid, he practically looked like he was reliving them in his eyes. He's watching her like a hawk, and Puck could tell that this isn't so much an argument _with_ Quinn, but an argument _for_ Quinn.

"Easy; it meant nothing. I don't have to mention nor talk about something that meant absolutely nothing," her words are sharp and cold, and for the life of Puck and surely Mike, they would like to believe it to be untrue. But to Mike, the lack of emotion in those hazel eyes, emotion that he could always detect in Camp Rochester-Fields, now have to become customary. He must get accustomed to the reality that here in the halls of McKinley, they aren't lemon and lime, they aren't best friends. They're strangers. Two people standing on different social standings, and though not far apart, in heart, they are.

"You're lying," Puck cringes. He hopes he isn't the only one who realizes how pitiful he sounded. Apparently not, since Quinn shifts in her stance, fighting back words that threatened to escape her lips.

"I'm telling the truth,"

"Since when did you do that?" asks Mike pointedly.

"I love Finn," she states, almost as if she'd forget if she didn't. "He doesn't need to get hurt,"

"You love everything Finn _is_," corrects the male.

"It's the same thing,"

"Hardly. You love _you_. Finn? You love everything he can give to you. Everything he can be _for_ you," the ugly truth that neither she nor Mike ever took up, something Puck and Finn and the rest of the school population turned a blind eye to, is surfacing in their relationship. If anything, the school bad boy is clinging onto each word. For so long, he's both supported Finn and Quinn's relationship on the pretense of Finn's supposed happiness, but on the other, secretly fought against it _because_ of the "supposed" part of the former statement.

It's the same principle with Mike, in addition. She's Finn's girl. She's _supposed_ to be Finn's girl. It's for that reason he couldn't have her. That and Mike couldn't handle it. Puck is hardly an empathetic person. He could care less about anyone else. But Mike is and will always be the glue that keeps the bang gang together. One thing he's learned over time; nothing means anything without friends. Your own blood can pick up their bags and leave your life, that he's witnessed, but friends, the legitimate ones anyways, stick. And they're all that will matter. As such, Puck allowed himself to _feel_ for his friend, and him and Quinn; bad news. Finn didn't care much for Quinn, just like she didn't. Mike? He cared. Oh fucking sweet hell, he cared.

"And for a second I almost forgot that our lives are forever committed to Finn Hudson," it's more of a statement towards himself that it is to her, but it didn't stop Quinn from gulping a bitter lump in her throat, and Puck to acknowledge it. Without trying, Finn managed to make the entire world spin for him. High school really is a shallow cycle of social status based on ranking, appearance and conformity. Or that's what wheels would say right before he would be met with a lovely slushie facial.

"Why are you pushing this?"

"Have I not answered this a million times? It's wro-"

"That's it?" she interrupts, crossing her arms. "You feel bad. Finn's your friend, I'm his girlfriend, you think I should tell him because I'm a bad girlfriend if I don't? A cheater?" she wonders out loud. "It's not because of anything else, Mike?" Quinn continues on, inching closer to him, head held high.

"_No,_" at this point, Puck practically slaps his forehead. Wait, he actually does. The two turn to his direction, immediately forcing him back into his old spot. There's a long, unbearable silence between the pair. At least that's what Puck guesses to be the case. Stealing a glance, it's confirmed.

"Then tell him yourself," Puck raises his eyebrows. If there's anything Quinn Fabray lived for, it's being one half of the power duo, the queen to Finn Hudson's inevitable king. She wouldn't risk her relationship to prove a point. Or better yet, do the right thing.

"That's if you _really_ are willing to risk losing your best friend," she continues slyly.

"I already did," he stares meaningfully at her, eyes gleaming with disappointment and dislike as he turns around and walks away. His feet slowly descend into nothingness, and before Puck could slowly make his way back to his class, or to the parking lot, the very same blonde girl that played with both of his best friends' hearts is looking right at him.

"Quinn," he acknowledges.

"How long have you been here?" she snaps.

"I was just dropping shit off in my locker," he gestures to his backpack, lying breezily. Looking at his dark, military print backpack, his thoughts are cut off by a tiny sniffle being emitted by the blonde.

"Are you crying?" asks Puck awkwardly. Comforting the girl he disliked with a passion isn't on the top of his list of priorities.

"No, it's my allergies," he nods dismissively, allowing her to walk away. Watching her leave him in the middle of an empty hallway, he chuckles to himself.

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe Rapunzel and Captain Shang's time is now. Maybe they couldn't wait another ten years like they already have. M

And maybe, just maybe, Noah Puckerman knows exactly what steps to take to make it happen.

Just maybe.

**Author's Note:** And so the plot is set in motion. I've finally got a clear outline of exactly what will happen, so it's just a matter of writing :D Putting this chapter in Puck's perspective was slightly challenging, but I think it did well to see Mike and Quinn from another student's point of view instead of just teachers who are much wiser, and gives us an impression of what their relationships are like. As you can tell from this chapter, Puck's loyalty is ultimately to the group, but specifically to Mike. He wants Mike to be happy, but keep the group peace. To him, Finn doesn't really or wouldn't really care much if his relationship fell apart, so tearing it apart isn't that big of a deal. Mind you this is Puck, and he isn't the most rational person xD But he makes for an interesting character. And he'll help move the plot forward all throughout.

Review!


	6. Under The Constelations

_Under The Constellations_

"Whenever something is bothering you, I can always find you here" it's those words that cut through the unbroken silence and avoidance she and Mike had established after their heated argument in the halls of McKinley High. It's those words, continuously, that break the blonde female out of her stupor and up to the distance, where Mike Chang stands, hands stuffed into his pockets.

"I thought you weren't talking to me," Quinn Fabray responds icily. The nerve of the boy, appearing in her secret hiding place, one she had specifically told him is only for herself, and no one else. It's her one solace; away from the loud noise of her father's Bourbon filled, crystal glass colliding against the walls, or Sue Sylvester's derogatory remarks to better shape her as the head cheerleader of the reality that she's unhappy. Now he's ruining it.

"And I thought you weren't either, yet here you are, talking" she rolls her eyes. She almost forgot just how sharp his wit is; occasionally sharper than hers in the rare instances.

Quinn falls back on her multi-colored, her curly blonde tendrils scattering messily behind her head. She hears him sigh, walking right over to her.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks hesitantly.

"Not really, no" she snaps back, stubbornly crossing her arms as she keeps her gaze up at the night sky. The tiny hill in the spacious park, found right in the outskirts of Lima, probably had the best view of the night sky. The street lights are dimmer, the traffic is less and it's perhaps one of the most deserted, unvisited parks in the town.

"You know, technically this is _our_ spot," she snorts.

"I only told you about it during camp. It's my spot," from the corner of her eyes, she sees him smile endearingly, and she swears she feels this comfortable heaviness weigh down on her. It's difficult to describe, but it's something.

"Don't you remember the class picnic?" inquires the boy, who seems to be shifting his weight from one leg to another.

"I try not to," her hazel eyes meet his for a split second. The typical stubbornness and anger isn't present in that split second, but a pointed look. As if she's waiting for him to understand why she tries not to.

"Right," he coughs inwardly. "Your dad…"

"What happened again?" she asks. She didn't need his sympathy. She didn't need him.

"We played chess on this hill," Mike says simply. She remains silent, speechlessly gauging him to carry on. "You won,"

"It was the first time I ever won a game of chess. We were nine," her words are toneless, like she's stating facts instead of reminiscing some beautiful memory. A game of chess on a hill could never hold a torch to their countless adventures in Camp Rochester-Fields. Quinn only ever finds the best, most timeless things beautiful. This memory isn't one of them. But she lets a tiny smile find it's way to her face anyways. Camp aside, they had no memories. Except for this one memory he is retelling. It's enough. Perhaps it's the only thing that could ever survive outside of camp, because it's the only thing they shared outside of camp.

"You went into some feminist rant after you finished bragging. You would tell me about how the reason why the queen protects the king is because she's more powerful-"

"I wasn't that articulate when I said it though," Quinn interrupts.

"Then we looked up at the clouds-"

"And I said I prefer the stars," she finishes off.

"I remember how you wore your hair in pigtails," touching the gold cross on her chest, she shakes her head.

"Why are you here? Why are you telling me this?" the head cheerleader's voice is soft, so soft and gentle in fact, that the gust of wind practically drowned her voice out. She finds the nerve to look right at him. "We're not friends,"

"I saw you running out Puck's party-"

"Everyone saw,"

"I just wanted to check on you,"

"Why?"

Quinn stares right at his face. Even in the darkness, she sees his most notable characteristics. There's his eyes; they're always much darker and large every time she looks into them. Those lips that her own sometimes longs for in the middle of the night caught her eye. His hair, she remembers the scent of the sun and how his hair always smelt of it. One look at him allows her to see all the thing she misses from camp, and all the things she's missing out on.

"Why do you think?" he asks challengingly.

"I'm not in the mood to play guessing games,"

"You're never in the mood; you're always scared you'll be wrong," he acknowledges, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand.

"Well?" Quinn pries.

"I thought you weren't talking to me," he repeats her words, a taunting smile on his face. His teeth shine in the moonlight, and she's sure she has never encountered stars nearly as bright. "And now you want to hear me talk,"

"Tell me why you're here, Mike. Tell me why you suddenly care. Tell me why you're doing this. You can't walk back into my life-"

"I was never a part of your life," he whispers numbly, crouching down until he's finally sitting right beside her. He plays with his lower lip. He only ever does that when he's thinking deeply, she's aware. "Not really, anyways. We were _seasonal friends_. A good laugh, a partner in crime… A person to kiss when you're emotional," they both look away from each other. "I was never really a part of your life the way Finn or Santana or Brittany are," she gulps, her eyes glistening under the night sky, the moon giving some form of light on her face.

"You shouldn't have to be," replies the Cheerio solemnly. "Do you know why I spent every summer in camp?" asks she.

"You like ramen?" he jokes. She doesn't laugh. It's unsurprising, she doesn't laugh as much anymore, she knows. But then again, Mike doesn't joke around nowadays either. It's the viciousness of reality, Quinn's aware.

"I wanted to be with you," she states confidently. She's one of those women who linger in the grey areas of life, never believing something to be absolute. But that one sentence, the fact that she wanted, or maybe really wants, to share every summer with him, is absolute. It's the only absolute thing she'll ever know of. "School, Finn, my family, the Cheerios; they're my life," She doesn't mention any of her so-called friends. She doesn't have any.

"I hated my life, I still do, and every summer I didn't have to live it. I could have the life I wanted, be the person I wanted…" she bites down on her lip. "Be with the person I wanted,"

"But summer ends when it does for a reason," she sniffles, brushing away a stray tear that cascaded down her cheek. She sees him gripping his fingers, like he's fighting the urge to brush her tears away himself.

"It doesn't have to be like that," he argues.

"You hate me, Mike" whatever tears she is holding back; they're out in the open now. She hasn't cried in awhile. She isn't much of a crier. Even when her father would lay his hands on her mother, or when Coach Sylvester would hash out her harsh, cold words towards her; she never shed a tear. Mike's the only man who has ever made her cry. She's not sure she likes that fact all too much.

"You think I'm shallow, vain, narcissistic, conceited, a bully," the softness in her voice is gone, it's pure self-loathing now.

"Stop, Q"

"Like it isn't fucking true, anyways. You hate me-"

"Quinn,"

"And it's _killing me_," she admits shamefully, hanging her head. "I can't breathe half the time because I know you hate me. You hate everything I am when I'm with Finn, or a Cheerio, or anything that doesn't involve summer camp. Why do you think we can't be friends outside of camp? Because in camp, I'm the exact opposite of those things. That's why I looked forward to every summer, because for two months my best friend doesn't hate me. Now we're done with camp for good and now you'll hate me for good,"

The rest of her rant is interrupted by his arms. They find their way around her body. She feels her beating chest against his own, and shivers at the familiar touch. She's missed this more than she could ever say. Quinn's body shakes in his arms, the hysteria overcoming her to a tipping point.

"Why did you come here?" she mumbles into his ear, resting her head on his broad, muscular shoulder. He doesn't smell like the sun anymore, but she doesn't smell like lavender either.

"Because I don't hate you," chocking back a sob, she nods.

"Why did you leave the party?"

"Mike-"

"I answered your question. Just please answer mine," he tells her weekly.

"I ended it with Finn," she feels him stop breathing, his heart beating fast into his chest.

"Why?" he asks quietly. She scoffs, wiping away the excess tears on his shirt. She's sure the salt water is enough to be rung out of it, if given the chance. She shed quite a lot of tears.

"He's not the guy for me,"

"Oh?"

"He never understood Pride and Prejudice,"

"Is that right?" he asks tauntingly, rubbing circles on the blonde's back soothingly.

"It is,"

"Have you finished reading it?" asks the dark-haired male conversationally.

"No. I don't want the story to end yet," he nods into her hair.

"Every story has to end," he reminds her, breaking the minute of silence that seems to overcome them.

"I guess. Maybe I'm just holding off the end. It's a happy ending though," she mutters, pulling her head out of the crook of his neck, meeting his eyes.

"I'm sorry you and Finn are over," Mike tells her sympathetically.

"You're not,"

"I just said I am,"

"And I don't believe you,"

"Why not?" he inquires, fussing his eyebrows together.

"Because you love me," she's wrong. This statement is the most absolute thing she'll ever know. Maybe she's known it all along. Maybe she's felt it all along. Maybe he's loved her all along. It doesn't stop her heart from racing faster. He's never said it, she's never thought it. But deep inside, in the deepest parts of her heart, she's always known.

"I do love you, lemon" he says it like it comes so easily to him. As if he's always known he loves her, and he's always been able to say it-she's just never given him a chance. She's heard people say they love her time and time again, Finn and her father, especially. It's their way of getting away from their obligation to her, as boyfriend and parent respectively. They use their supposed love to act as means of avoiding being present at her cheer performances, of treating her right and asking more than once if everything is okay. Mike's using his love to obligate himself to her. It's almost like he's giving her everything he has, and taking everything she will offer, praying he can be responsible for all of her.

She levels their heads, tears long forgotten and sorrow hardly detectable. The closet dancer could always make her forget. Except now, she remembers. She remembers the summers spent frolicking under the sun, as well as the nights spent talking intimately under the sun. She recalls the nicknames, the arguments over bacon, him teaching her how to dance, the laughter, the silliness, the friendship and, most of all, the love. Maybe he's not the only one in love after all.

"I want to kiss you," she admits helplessly.

"You always do what you want, Quinn" he chuckles, she giggles. Leaning forward, she effortlessly lands her lips on his. That significant evening spent kissing had been rough. Each kiss always provided difficulty, such as which way their heads would go or up to where she would allow him to touch her. But this kiss is far from planned or complicated. And she's sure she enjoys it more than the last.

The hint of beer from Mike's mouth tickles her taste buds. She would reprimand him for drinking, she's always been violent when it comes to any type of alcohol consumption. But she refrains, because kissing him is just like drinking; you only got more delirious and out of control when you have more of it.

She feels him wrap his arms around her waist, pulling her closer. Eventually, Quinn moves her body so that she's straddling his lap, kisses growing in passion and aggressiveness rapidly. She's never been much of a kisser, often times she would hear Finn secretly telling Puck of her lack in that area, but she didn't care. She would kiss like there's no tomorrow. Knowing them, there wouldn't be.

His hands begin to glide slowly down her body, nearing the one area she never allowed Finn touch. She lets him. Growing breathless, Quinn moves her mouth away from his. A sweet smile takes over Mike's face. He's looking at her the way she's never seen anyone else do so. It's refreshing. Moving her lips down to the crook of his neck, she glides them up slowly. Quinn's unsure if she's having any effect on him. Santana once said she seemed like she kisses like a fish.

Mike grips her bottom longingly, causing the blonde to smile in surprise and unexpected pleasure. He grasps her things from underneath her dress, gripping them and flipping her down onto the mat. He's always been so sweet and gentle, it's how she's known him from the start. Now she's knowing him differently.

He finds her lips again with his own, resting on top of her. She shivers as a slight breeze passes through their bodies, but it only lasts for a second. Everything about her is steaming hot in present time. Running her fingers through his hair, she hesitantly nibbles on his lower lip, gliding her tongue hesitantly through. His immediately meets her own, running around her tongue and taking her all in.

She fiddles with the hem of his shirt, wanting so much to touch the warm skin underneath. Quinn isn't Rachel Berry, she doesn't want things too badly, and blindly dives into something or someone because of this lust. But her actions, her want for him and his body and the intimacy and experience it can provide, is overwhelming. Quinn feels his own hands linger tracing circles along her thigh, and she nods in the middle of their kiss.

"Is this okay?" he immediately asks, his eyes wide and nervous. She feels whatever doubt in her heart diminish.

"This is great," Quinn admits softly, touching his cheek with her fingers.

"Quinn, I-" he wants to say so much, she could see it in his eyes. "I think we should probably cool off," Mike says, biting his lip. Shaking her head, her fingers land on his lips, playing with the softness of it in her fingers.

"No," Mike's eyebrows raise, shaking his head.

"Q, I don't think you understand,"

"Of course I do,"

"If we push this anymore… I don't think I can take it," he crinkles his eyebrows to wordlessly explain himself. She nods, understanding him completely.

"Yes, you can"

"No, Quinn. I can't. I'm still a guy. If it gets too hot and you keep doing that really hot thing with your tongue," she slaps her hand against his lips, sitting up slightly so that she could look closer into his eyes.

"Again, you don't understand," she whispers. "You can _take it,_" the Football players stares inquisitively into her hazel eyes. Removing her hand, she uses her thumb to hold his lower lip down, sliding her tongue out and taking him all in again. Moving her arms around his hard torso, she gestures for him to lay down where she previously was.

"Lemon, what…" he trails off, staring questioningly up at her. Relaxing her legs on both sides of his body, she smiles nervously, gulping down a lump in her throat.

"You can take it, Mike…. You can take me," his eyes widen in understanding, before immediately sparkling in warmth and passion. Quinn's cheeks burn, but the heat cannot compare to every other inch of her body.

"Are you sure? Here? Now?" he glances around the park, inhabited just by themselves.

"Where else? A bed? A Hyatt?"

"You deserve that," responds Mike, rubbing circles on her back.

"All I want is this,"

"I don't want you to regret it,"

"I won't,"

"How do you know, lemon? This is your first time,"

"Exactly, lime. It's my first time. I want it to be with you," she admits, heart racing faster inside her chest.

"Don't you want it to be special?" asks the dark brown-eyed boy, the inadequate fear trembling from his voice.

"I'm making love to my best friend for the first time," Quinn says sweetly. "How much more special can that get?" it's all Mike needs to immediately find the tip of her dress' zipper, sliding it quickly down until her back is exposed to the cool air. Mike pulls her down to rest above his body, sweeping her hair to her other shoulder and planting chaste kisses along her collar bone. The temperature of her body immediately surges upwards, making her both itch and worry about having to remove her dress. She's never been more scared, or excited or trusting than she is right now.

She reminds herself that she'll have to quit the celibacy club after this.

Mike's hands grip the strap resting on her shoulder, slowly sliding to expose her shoulder. A breathe hitches in her throat as he begins nibbling on the skin. She becomes absolutely breathless when his lips reach the rising slope of her breasts. Quinn feels her legs tingle as he exposes them slowly, unhooking the strapless bra and carefully letting them fall to the grass.

"Take off your shirt," she demands, pulling his lips away from her chest. He doesn't judge, or call her out on her demanding nature. He smiles softly, understanding the vulnerability she's feeling in this very moment. He lifts his shirt up slowly, keeping his eyes on hers disregarding the millisecond wherein the shirt blocks his gaze. Quinn's eyes wanted down his toned, muscular body, salivating just how sexy and handsome he looks.

"Is that better?" she nods, finding his careful, passionate eyes again. Locking them, she lays herself back down on the mat, allowing him to take his position in front of her. Placing her hand against his chest, she touches his rock-hard abs with her fingers. She's never felt such solidness on a man's body as she does right now.

Mike repositions his lips against the slope of her round, tiny breasts. He moves his other hand to her left breast, circling around the edges. She lets out a low, muffled moan of desire. He had to be kidding with this teasing. He is arousing her to an unbearable point. Quinn's entire body caved into the feel of his lips. Finally, his mouth finds her nipple, licking the hardened area, much to her pleasure. It's so intimate an act, Quinn is suddenly reminded of why she's doing this. Sex is intimacy in its grandest form, and to allow him to touch her in places she would never allow anyone else, proves that he is the only one she could be this intimate with.

The blonde could feel his pants tightening around his crotch from beneath him, making her much more aware of how legitimate this is becoming. Ruffling her fingers through his scalp, she snakes her fingers down to the top of his pants' buttons. Quinn's shaky fingers begin to unbuckle his belt. Mike's lips move onto her other nipple, making her remove his pants completely. He's killing her with his actions. She could feel his cock against her thigh. Its hardness, even from above his briefs, surprised her.

Mike's lips rest in the valley of her boobs, sucking the smooth, silky skin down slowly. His body moves to accommodate the downward movement, until he reaches the area still covered by her dress. Hooking the dress with his fingers, he pulls away the silk fabric to reveal her cotton, white thong. She can see him staring in surprise, as well as evident lust.

"Santana got me thongs for my birthday," she explains. She never took a liking to them until recently. They prevented lines on her ass, and made her feel sexy. Which, for the head of the celibacy club and avid Church girl, is insanely difficult. He continues to kiss down her body until he reaches the tip of her thong, hooking it with his fingers and slowly and cautiously pulling them down. She gasps, nodding him on to continue.

Mike sits up, looking directly into her eyes. He reaches for the elastic of his boxers, pulling them down to his knees. The cheerleader almost felt like fainting as he reveals himself to her. She's only watched porn three times. The first with Santana and Brittany, the second after a drunken Puck grinded against her at one of his parties and the last being the first time she's ever touched herself. From all three instances, she's gathered the supposed lengths of cocks. Their sizes on those shady websites surprised her. They surely couldn't be that big. Now, she knows that they can be bigger. Damn, and here she thought the Asian rumor would prove to be right. Mike places a sweet peck on the corner of her mouth.

"Do you want this?" he asks her quickly.

"Do you?"

"More than anything," Mike shamelessly admits. Quinn picks up his chin to kiss her right in the mouth. "Fuck me, Mike" he chuckles, brushing his fingers through her hair.

"You still swear every time you get hot?" Mike wonders out loud, eyes twinkling with unmistakable glee.

"You still ask a lot of questions every time you get hot?" Quinn retorts.

"Touche," he laughs into her lips, lovingly grazing their noses together.

"If it starts getting weird-" she boldly reaches down for his exposed manhood, circling it in her grasp. He stops talking, sinking his head down to her neck and sucking quickly. Pulling away, he spreads her bony legs open. Gulping, Quinn shuts her eyes, preparing for him to enter her. He slides his cock slowly and gently into her, immediately making her yelp and cringe at the pain.

"Ugh," she grunts, shutting her eyes as she tries to numb out the pain. He leans down to graze his lips against her cheek, stroking her hair. "Should I go on?" he asks quietly. Her eyes finds his, and she nods, the pain simmering down. It would feel better, it would feel great, she reminds herself.

"Yeah. But kiss me," Mike complies without a second's hesitation, raising his hips and pushing himself back in slowly. He moves rhythmically, slowly and gently to build up her tolerance for him inside of her. The feeling is so foreign, she's unsure if she'll ever get used to it. But it's that very fact that makes her slowly love the feel of him pulsing in and out of her. Quinn's tongue wanders along Mike's, tiny animalistic moans escaping her trembling lips. Mike groans into her mouth, moving faster as he feels her growing anticipation.

"Mike," she whispers into his mouth, grazing his nose. Her walls tighten around his cock, making her body freeze. His movements are precise, she's unsure if its due to it being her first time, or him merely being that good, that she already feels an escalating pleasure build up in her body. Quinn's cheeks burn as his eyes momentarily flicker to stare right into her hazel orbs. He's seeing so much of her, feeling her in a way no one ever has, and it frightens her. It's embarrassing, really. He touches the corner of her lips with his own before sliding them down to her ear. Mike bites on the sensitive area harshly, making her shift uncomfortably.

Wrapping her arms around his neck, she presses their bodies close together. He's moving so quickly, Quinn's moans escalate in volume. He sucks feverishly on her hardened nipple, grunting as he does so.

Quinn's damp walls tighten around him more and more. She's only ever gotten a feeling similar to this a number of times, but they all seemed to fail in comparison. Now she knows why Santana goes on and on about the pleasures of sex. She pulls his lips away from her breasts to meet her eyes. She wants to look right into his piercing, inquisitive, passionate dark eyes when she reaches her peak.

"I-I'm-" she attempts to begin.

"Me too," he immediately interrupts, going faster now. They're both extremely close to getting off, she's glad he drums faster and faster into her. The blonde could only somewhat fathom just how good it'll feel. She grazes her lips against his moist, warm ones quickly, legs trembling. Finally, the dancer slides in one final time, hitting a specific place that makes her walls tighten so much, they had no choice but to relax, releasing her cum as she gasps for breathe.

Quinn feels him slide in and out one of two more times, the friction eventually getting the better of him. He moans, eyes fixed right on her, and she immediately feels him release right inside of her. Immediately, she catches his lips, not wanting to let go of the vibrating feel her orgasm had left her with. Exhaling as she pulls away, she hangs onto the pleasurable feeling, relaxing her bare back on the mat and holding his bare body close. He pulls out slowly, but not without a few more thrusts for good measure.

Mike collapses beside her own body, hiding his face in the crook of her neck. Underneath the darkness of the night sky, and the shimmer of the constellations that bore witness to them beyond the ages did they share something so special neither one of them could fathom. In that fifteen minutes, what had occurred between them becomes imprinted in both of their minds forever.

"Lime?"

"Yeah, lemon"

"Every night since we fought, I wished for you,"

"Me too,"

"Lime?"

"Yeah, lemon?"

"You're it for me, I swear to God,"

"Me too,"

* * *

><p><strong>To: Quinn<strong>

**From: Finn**

**(Sent 12:54AM)**

**Quinn, pick up your phone. I'm sorry. I didn't mean for it to happen. Can we just talk? I never meant to kiss Rachel. It just sort of happened, and I know that's not an excuse but I want you back, baby.**

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note:<em> Dun, dun dun :D Oh crap, that Fabang smut /fans self. But that text is super significant. Again, we're not at the angst yet, but this is pivotal to the rest of the story. How did you guys like it? Happy to have some sweet, lovely lemon and lime? You are? Then review!


	7. Something Bittersweet

_Something Bittersweet_

"_Stop_," Quinn Fabray hisses into Mike Chang's ear. The corners of his lips twitch up at the palpable irritation gleaming from her eyes, mixed with unwilling pleasure. Keeping his hands on her bare knee, he continues to create circular patterns along her skin. She finds his hand, attempting to slap his own hand away, when he merely takes it into his. Massaging the back of her hand, she lets out a low whistle.

"Q, are you even listening?" snaps Santana Lopez, who sits across the two in McKinley High's bustling cafeteria.

"She's listening," Mike affirms, resting their intertwined hands on her bare knee, keeping his gaze leveled and emotionless as he watched Santana raise her eyebrow.

"I'm listening," Quinn quickly pipes in, using her free hand to reach for the latest Seventeen magazine Santana was flipping through.

"I'm thinking the green one with the low back. I saw something like it in Marshalls," as the two cheerleaders exchange opinions about said dress on the glossy page, Mike subtly keeps his eyes locked on the side of the blonde's face. Exactly two weeks since the two lost their virginities to one another under the star-lit, night sky, they had been inseparable. Even up to now, her two yes-girls as well as on-and-off allies, Santana Lopez and Brittany Pierce, still found their unexpected "friendship" odd.

They never really talked about what they were, mostly due to either one not needing a label. They never did. Be it in camp or at McKinley, they're simply Mike and Quinn. Not best friends or each other's romantic interest or anything like that. They're simply them; an older, realized version of the two teenagers running around Camp Rochester-Fields oblivious to the rest of the world.

Despite this, after that evening, every second of everyday revolved around each other; intentionally or not. Out of the blue, they sat together in every class, ate lunch together (much to nearly everyone's surprise) and spent their afternoons doing outlandish things Quinn could think of on a whim. To say the least, their friends were surprised, save Noah Puckerman.

Mike didn't necessarily know _what_ Puck knew about himself and Quinn, or the nature of their relationship. But judging by the knowing smirk he gave the dancer when he walks into Spanish class Monday morning limping from the other night's festivities, he could tell the Mohawk-boy had connected the dots. Which, in reality, isn't much of a surprise to Mike. Sure, the boy's GPA is low and his thoughts are never wildly intellectual, but he is definitely observant. Much more observant that Mike is, he hates to admit.

From the looks of it, neither Santana nor Brittany had caught on, much like the rest of the student body. If anything, they just found his overwhelming presence odd and slightly irritating. Well, Santana did, anyways. Brittany just smiled and offered him dots in exchange for his dim sum, which he gladly complied to.

He didn't care much if the two other members of the "Unholy Trinity" disliked him. Quinn and himself always fought against the rest of the world, which constantly disapproved of them. It's the very reason their friendship once only existed in the confines of camp. But now that he finally has her, in the way he's always wanted, he's willing to fight for it. Slow and steady, they agreed to the morning after. No one would know of their relationship, and they would just go onto being friends in everyone else's eyes. At least until they find a way to function in the harsh circumstances of the wretched school.

"Chang, will you please tell Quinn here that red is totally her color," Santana's precise words interrupt his thoughts. Looking right at the Latina, who gestures to a form fitting, strapless dress on the pages of her girly magazine, he shrugs.

"It's okay,"

"Okay?" questions the girl beside him, who looks at him expectantly yet curiously at the same time. Shrugging nonchalantly, he offers her a tiny smile.

"I like yellow or lavender better," Quinn's hazel orbs twinkle affectionately towards him, right before she crinkles her nose and shoves his arm playfully.

"Corny,"

"We could all use a bit of corny in our lives," Mike replies.

"That's from the Holiday," she argues.

"Says the girl who quotes Rent in her sleep,"

"_No day but today_," Quinn replies pointedly, laughing as she hides her face in his shoulder, trying to cease her laughter.

"Ew," Brittany and Santana say simultaneously.

"Like you two are one's to talk," returns the head cheerleader pointedly. " _You_ once dressed up as a cat so you and Brittany can spy on Lord Tubbington and make sure he isn't smoking again," she nods over to the dark-haired girl, whose cheeks burn at the memory.

"I told you that in secret, Q!"

"You told me that when you were _drunk_,"

"Potatoe-Potatoh!" says Santana, swatting the air for effect.

"I want a potato," the other blonde cheerleader, who stops halfway through chewing on her tots, to express to the three.

"You're eating potatoes now, Brittany," observes Mike, trying to keep himself from crushing Quinn's hand in irritation. Generally speaking, he's a rather relaxed guy, much different from Quinn's infusion of neuroticism. It takes a great deal to set him off, but spending forty five minutes with Quinn's friends slowly drove him insane. Whether its Santana's long, descriptive insults regarding his scrawny frame in comparison to his abs or jokes about his Chinese heritage, or Brittany's intolerable, idiotic comments, they always get to him. Not that he'd ever tell Quinn that, of course.

"Oh, right,"

"Not man enough, Chang?" glancing up from his tray, Noah Puckerman stands in front of their table, slurping his signature cherry slushie and glancing over at the three girls surrounding him. "Don't worry, not everyone can handle three chicks like Puckzilla,"

"You really refer to yourself as 'Puckzilla?'" asks Quinn, the distaste palpable in her voice. He cringes to himself. The animosity between the two is understandable, they couldn't be more different. At least, that's what he believes it to be. That or Quinn was just being her regular self, closing herself off to men like Puck who could threaten her squeaky clean reputation.

"Quit hating on my swag, Quinn," replies Puck, placing his hand on Quinn's shoulder and the other on Mike's. He shakes them both, and he feels her squeeze his hand from underneath the table. He cringes. The girl had a strong grip. That night when they had gotten together, after years of confusion, proved just that.

It was hardly something he had anticipated. Wanted, of course. Take away every feelings he had for the girl with the golden tendrils and engrossing hazel eyes, he's been physically attracted to her since before he could ride a bicycle. Of course, what began as mere attractiveness in his eyes formed into some sort of sexual awakening. His first erotic fantasy; her. It had been after the weekly bonfire at Camp Rochester-Fields. A twelve-year-old, excitable Quinn had dragged him to the pool, jumping in without removing her shirt. It soaked around her body, and those young, perky breasts of a preteen caught his attention.

That night, it's the first he's ever pleased himself in a hot shower. In some way, it redefined his so-called crush on her and established her as someone he _wants_. Physically, emotionally, mentally-everything.

Up to this day, she's still the only girl in his dreams. As compromising and unromantic and purely pornographic as certain dreams may be, it's always about her. It's always been about her.

"Sitting, Puckerman?" inquires Santana saucily, raising her eyebrows sexily up at him. Mike's gaze momentarily flickers towards Brittany, whose large, thoughtless grin falters slightly, eyes moving down to her sandwich.

"You asking, Lopez?"

"I never ask,"

"Puck, just take a seat," interrupts the Football player. His and Santana's constant back and forth isn't really something that sat well in his stomach, especially since Quinn would keep him up with long rants about how her two best friend's were completely oblivious to the other's feelings. He doesn't usually involve himself in the theatrics of high school romances. Puck just goes from one bed to another, so he highly doubts anything more would come of him and Santana. But according to Quinn, nothing can become everything. He needs to stop listening to her. Maybe he is becoming "whipped" like he heard Puck whisper to himself one Saturday evening, wherein he blew off a night of Call Of Duty to watch Quinn do her nails.

"Don't mind if I do," easily pulling the two apart, separating their hands, he positions himself right between the two.

"Just peachy," notes Quinn sarcastically.

"Cut the crap. You should be making a statues of me right now," murmurs Puck simply.

"Why would I do that?" she snaps.

"One of two reasons. The first being I'm awesome, the second being you owe me," she scoffs.

"Since when did I _owe you_?" she asks, going along with the conversation. He misses her touch, but he settle for keeping his eyes on her under the pretense of listening in on the conversation.

"Since forever," he returns nonchalantly.

"Right, well as _exhilarating _as this conversation is, _Noah_. I'm gonna go look for Coach and ask about practice later," picking up the bottle of water resting on her tray, she turns away from him, standing up.

"I'll see you guys in class," she pauses briefly behind Mike, wrapping her arms around his neck. Subtly touching her bracelet with his fingers, he lets his lips brush against the soft skin of her arm. He feels goosebumps arise on her skin, his cheeks reddening further.

"We'll go with you, Q" Santana announces, picking up her and Brittany's tray and standing up as well. Puck's large, expectant eyes widen as he feigns a mocking pout, before chuckling.

"Way to ruin all the fun," murmurs Puck.

"We can have fun later," the Latina says nonchalantly, walking right behind the muscular Jew and wrapping her own dainty arms around his neck.

"We're going," those warm arms that Mike took great comfort in leave his shoulders, grasping Santana's and dragging her off. Mike sighs to himself. He can never imagine having friends involved in his love life. Ever.

"Has she put out since the last time?" the Football player's dark eyes move slowly away from the three retreating cheerleader to his friends. Crinkling his eyebrows, he feigns confusion.

"Put out?" he asks innocently. Though he did realize _who_ Puck was talking about, the terminology isn't exactly something he's accustomed to. Despite his love for state-of-the-art video games, he's a tad bit old school. That's probably why dropping all technology during the summer, one of the guidelines of his and Quinn's summer friendship, was always so easy.

Maybe it's far too archaic and out-dated for anyone's taste, but for himself and Quinn, their more decadent relationship of sorts worked. Board games took the place of video games, long notes written on stationary replaced text messages and sometimes they would fill bottles with tiny notes and throw it in Quinn's pool for the hell of it.

"Did you get into Fabray's granny panties yet?" _Well, she was wearing a thong…_

"Quinn and I aren't together,"

"But you fucked her," he slaps his friend's muscular bicep, glaring daggers into his eyes.

"People can hear,"

"So? If I nailed the queen of the chastity ball I'd be screaming from the mountain tops!" exclaims Puck, catching the attention of one Finn Hudson. Glancing over at the pair, the six foot tall boy turns away, picking up his backpack and making his way out. The school had been buzzing about the recent break up for weeks, speculating what exactly happened. As sadistic as it may be, he takes pride in knowing he is the very reason their relationship fell apart. Not necessarily because Quinn was growing bored or Finn had screwed up, but because she wanted _him_. He wasn't the second choice, the seasonal romance, he's the first choice.

He's never felt more validated.

"Well, you fucked her right?" refusing to honor him with a response, he picks up the straw of his drink, taking a long sip. Putting it back down, he turns his attention back to the overly-excited friend picking from his plate.

"How's Finn taking it?" asks the dark-haired boy quietly, picking at his lunch. Sighing, Puck shrugs, keeping his gaze fixed on Finn as he walks out of the cafeteria. Waiting until he's gone, he merely shrugs, unsure of what response would be appropriate.

"He misses her, I guess… Not that you care," Puck adds at the end, smirking.

"Finn's my friend, Puck. I care," he returns quickly. He isn't completely heartless. Tearing up a relationship isn't exactly how he wanted himself and Quinn to find their way to each other.

"Yeah, you shouldn't, he'll get over it,"

"How are you so sure?" Puck bites his lip pensively, as if something's on the tip of his tongue that dared not slip out.

"Wanna walk around?" before Mike could reply, Puck's already grasping his arm, yanking him up from his seat.

* * *

><p>"Q," the silence of the empty North hallway is broken by Finn Hudson's voice. It echoes in the empty hallway, hitting the blonde girl who stands idly by her locker harder than it should. She keeps her hazel eyes glued to the books stacked along her locker in a failed attempt to ignore his presence. She sees him standing close to his locker, fiddling with the lock purposelessly.<p>

"Finn," she acknowledges curtly, picking up her vintage copy of Pride and Prejudice. From the corner of her eye, she sees him looking over, biting his lip.

"Have you finished reading it?" he asks. Scoffing bitterly, Quinn shakes her head.

"Because you care _so_ much, right?"

"Quinn,"

"Just stop, Finn" shaking her head, she throws the book right into the pocket of her Cheerio gym bag, covering the flap over it. To even be in such close proximity of the guy who had finally proven himself to _not_ be the one drove her mad. Finally braving to look over at him, she sucks in a breathe, tearing her gaze away quickly.

"I'm sorry," apologizes the tall, quarterback quickly. Years of dating had made him painfully aware of her flaming temper. Almost as much as she's aware of his routine apology.

"No, I'm sorry" shutting the locker, or rather slamming it, she allows her eyes to flicker back to him. "I'm sorry it took me this long to realize that you and I, we're not good together," at some point, they were. She could was able to see a future with him in the past. He'd be the coach of some worldly college outside of Lima, she would be a successful real-estate agent and they would child after child like her supposedly-Christian parents would desire. They would be as happy as their mediocre, cookie-cutter dreams would allow.

Maybe that's what she had been fighting for in their relationship for years; it was everything she wanted, and not at all what she needed. The wanting of their relationship, status boost and acceptance included, would allow her to be somewhat invested. The lack of neediness, in him and their relationship, allowed her to keep her heart intact. It sat coldly and idly in her chest whenever she was with him. Nothing necessarily wrong with that, isn't that how must high school relationships function? A want for someone, but not a need for a particular someone? She should be satisfied with the less-than-stellar, emotionally shallow, easy relationship with the less-than-stellar, emotionally shallow, easy Finn Hudson.

But she isn't. She had to be cursed with some shitty, deep, consuming love by one Mike Chang. She mentally notes to bite his ear harder later. He had to pay for this damned curse.

"I never meant to kiss Rachel-" a scoff helplessly came from the blonde.

"So your lips just so happened to touch hers?" she challenges. She'd spotted the two sharing some intimate moment in Puck's bedroom. She'd come there specifically to haul him out of his whoozy state downstairs for some Winter Wonderland King and Queen campaigning with the drama nerds when she saw them. He looked at her in that way she's only ever seen one guy look at her, and it certainly isn't him. Rachel Berry is hardly someone she would have considered a rival for Finn's attention. She's Rachel Berry, a girl nowhere near as beautiful or likeable as she. Yet there he was, staring at her like she was the sun and the clouds. Quinn's nothing more than the moon and the stars.

He kissed her. It stung more than she thought such an occurrence would. Before she knew it, her heel was turned and she'd been running out of Noah Puckerman's party. The last thing she had seen in the confines of his house is Puck standing beside Mike, who was on his first bottle of beer for the night, muttering something in his ear. There was a quick look of realization on the Asian boy's face, she recalls.

"I meant… I never meant to hurt you, Quinn"

"None the less you did," she snaps.

"I made a mistake with Rachel," she almost believed him, if his voice didn't crack, if his eyes didn't betray clear hypocrisy. And it almost hurt, if she didn't know that, if the situation were reversed, she would be the same.

"What do you want from me, Finn?" he closes in on the space between them. He towers over her, bending his head to be as close to her face as she would allow.

"I want you to forgive me. I was buzzed,"

"You had a cooler," reminds the hazel-eyed girl.

"And I was being stupid. You were just so fucking distant, Q. You'd look at me and it's like you were looking at someone else," she's the queen of liars, so she barely cringes at his words. "You wouldn't look at me the way you used to,"

"You're the one who cheated, not me" she knew the hypocrisy in her words, she had cheated much earlier, with much more pent up emotion than he did. But was it really relevant now? To Mike, she was the moon and the stars, and he'd prefer the night over the day which Rachel Berry embodied any day. And maybe it's only his thoughts that mattered now. Maybe it has been for awhile.

"Can you look me in the eye and say you don't have feelings for me anymore?" she finds his dark eyes. They're not any bit as magnificent as the one's she looks into every evening during their nightly star gazing sessions. Her eyes flicker to his lips, those aren't the ones that sent tingles down her spine when they landed on her collar bone. He shifts closer, to the point where she could feel his chest beating. Hers doesn't.

"I'll always have some feelings for you," she shamelessly gives to him. "But I don't… I _can't_ be with you anymore,"

"Why?"

"You hurt me, that's one"

"Not a good enough reason,"

"How isn't that a good enough reason?" Quinn hisses, eyes darkening with the way he was coming off.

"You always talk about forgiveness…" he trails off, shrugging his broad shoulders.

"It doesn't mean I can be in a _relationship_ with you," backing herself up slowly, she looks at him up and then down, offering a nod of acknowledgement. Sighing, he stares at her expectantly, slowly walking past her. Stopping briefly beside her, he turns, placing a light, peck on the top of her head. She lets out a soft breathe, shutting her eyes. He pulls away, patting her shoulder before beginning to make his way back into the gym.

Quinn stands in the vacant hallway, composing herself after that encounter. They were over, so incredibly over. She just had to work out her concern for her status as McKinley's Quinn bee of her system, and she could manage. She could manage without the entire Football team's loyalty, or being put on a pedestal as one half of the golden couple. She could manage without the title of Finn Hudson's girlfriend, even if it's all she's ever known. Right?

Deciding to shake those concerns from her head, she begins walking down the hallway. Turning the corner, she bumps into a hard chest standing right in front of her. Pausing, she fusses her eyebrows together, ready to hurl some direct insult at whatever socially toxic asset bumped into her. Gazing upwards, she sees _her_ Mike standing their, face void of emotion.

"Lime, you could move?" she teases, poking his abs with her finger. "Sorry about lunch today, they can be a handful. But Puck can be too, and you hang around with him. I just had to get Britters out of there. She doesn't say it, but Santana hooking up with Puck on a regular basis gets to her. I can tell," Quinn rants on, snaking her dainty arms around his torso, pulling him close. "Can we watch Pride And Prejudice at your house later? I wanted to catch up with what I didn't see in class yesterday. I think I stopped at the part where she rejected him in the rain? Man, I love that movie. Or that book. Or both," chuckling, she feels the tension in her body relax. Finally, she pauses briefly, pressing her chin against his chest and looking up at him. He's always been quiet, she just didn't understand why he was being quiet around _her_.

"Um…" she trails off awkwardly, pulling away slightly to look into his eyes.

"So you basically screwed me because Finn screwed you over with Rachel?" harsh words from Mike Chang aren't something she's used to.

She always loved being the moon and the stars to him, but right now all she wants is to be sucked into a black hole.

**Author's Note: **Cliffhanger, sort of :D Took me awhile to write this but I think it's pretty okay. And so the angst ride begins. Wanna review? Yes? GO DO IT!


	8. Pride and Prejudice

_Pride And Prejudice_

"_I miss the summer," admits Mike Chang shamelessly into Quinn's ear. Toying playfully with the hem of her shirt, he rests his chin on her shoulder. Inhaling her strawberry scent, he longs for the scent of lavender on her skin. But from what he's learned in their one week together is that their different personas at McKinley had to be adapted into their relationship. Relying solely on their summer memories, on their summer beings, wouldn't be enough. He starts with the strawberry body wash she purchased from that fruity bath shop. He pushes himself to like it, not even love it, just like. Up to now, he still wishes she smelled like lavender, because that's the way she always smelled during the summer. It's the scent that reminded him of her whenever he smells it. Strawberry just reminds him of strawberries._

* * *

><p>"Please, just wait for a second," pleads Quinn Fabray, walking swiftly through the hallways of McKinley High School. They're stealthily silent, but several warning bells went off in her head. He'd overheard her and Finn's conversation. He'd fucking overheard. His retreating form walks faster; clearly listening to her isn't on his mind.<p>

"Mike, I'm a _Cheerio_, I can keep up with you," she reminds him desperately, turning the corner out to the intersecting hallway. Quickening her pace, she follows him out into the exit. Thoughts of being late for her third period biology class or how crinkled her perfectly pressed Cheerios uniform were the last thing on her mind. She just couldn't lose him. She's lost him time and time again, and each time she recovered. Each time she could return to Lima, to her position as queen bee and doting daughter and not think of him. But that's before this. Before she's tasted those sweet, warm lips. Before she felt what it's like to have such warm, familiar yet unfamiliar hands on her body. Before she knew what it was like to be intoxicatingly, painfully, hopelessly in love with her best friend.

"Just give me a chance to explain," she screeches, walking down the steps of the exit. She feels the rain trickle onto her hair, the cold breeze of mid-November brushing against her bare skin. Damn these Cheerio uniforms are skimpy.

"What's there to explain?" he asks rhetorically. She cringes at heart stabbing loathing in his voice. She knew he wasn't her biggest fan outside of camp, but she never thought he'd hate her like this.

* * *

><p>"<em>Hm," mutters Quinn, nodding as she wraps her arm around his shoulders, pulling him closer. Mike rests his cheek on her collarbone, staring up at the ratty old copy of Pride and Prejudice she held up. Normally, he likes watching her read. Something about the way her eyebrows knit together pensively made her look alluringly beautiful. But now, he's lost Quinn to the land of Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennett, and he's almost certain he won't get her back unless he lights a fire or eats her bacon.<em>

"_Remember when we got lost on that bike route?" Mike asks conversationally. _

"_Oh yeah, I remember" he can always read past her lies; she doesn't._

"_Quinn, I'm secretly a ninja," he announces. She nods passively._

"_I want you. Right now. On this bed,"_

"_That's nice," The blonde mumbles, flipping a page on her book._

"_I might be spending a semester in Shanghai," well that certainly caught her attention._

* * *

><p>"I didn't just pick you because he cheated," sprinting quickly, she manages to stop him right when he's about to pull his car door open. Standing against the driver's seat door, she feels the rain dampen her eyelashes, her mascara and eyeliner already smearing.<p>

"Sure sounded like it,"

"It's not,"

"So that night, when we _fucked_ in the park," she tries not to hate him for referring to it as 'fucking'. They aren't Santana Lopez and Noah Puckerman, who tossed the idea of losing one's virginity around to be some cheap, lustful deed. They don't call it _fucking_. At least she didn't, seems like _he_ did. "You weren't just doing it as revenge?"

"_No_," she answers immediately, trying to grasp his shoulder. He pries it off, placing her arm back to its original spot. "Mike, the Rachel thing meant nothing to me,"

"It didn't seem like it,"

"How something seems compared to how it actually is, is two different thing," she insists.

"So why didn't you tell me?"

* * *

><p>"<em>Why didn't you tell me?" she asks, sliding her arms away from his shoulders. She places the book underneath Mike's pillow, facing him. He inches closer, covering their bodies in his Spiderman sheet. He sees the disorientation in her eyes; like she's lost and begging for some clarification.<em>

"_I didn't want to,"_

"_Why not?"_

"_I didn't want you to be upset,"_

"_What makes you think I would be?" Mike opts not to respond, biting his lip as he tries to find an appropriate response. He feels her hazel eyes boring hotly onto the face of his skin, forcing him to snap his head up to face her._

"_It's already killing me, and I just found out," Quinn never liked to admit she'd miss him, her pride is too thick for that. But he never thought she was capable either, prejudice always was his greatest flaw._

* * *

><p>Pausing, she gulps down a large lump in her throat. Why didn't she tell him? Surely it wasn't an irrelevant fact. They told each other everything, didn't they? Maybe it was fear. She could very well attribute it to fear. Fear of that disapproving gleam in his eye. Fear of the way he would sound when he commented nonchalantly on it. She feared his judgmental, self-righteousness pouring down on her.<p>

Gazing up at him, eyes displaying that clear fear for his judgment, made it all click in Mike's head. Yes, he was a quiet guy, he didn't make a fuss or anything of that sort, but the characteristic of judgmental and self-righteous more often than not came up in both his actions and observations of others. Specifically, Quinn.

"I didn't want to hurt you," she whispers solemnly, leaning back on the car. Turning away from her, he heaves a heavy sigh. Seldom has he ever been angry, and to some extent he isn't angry right now. Hurt, that's what he was. Plain and simple; hurt. Because he's waited for this (correction, he's been waiting for something like this). He's waited for when the entire universe didn't revolve around Finn Hudson. He's waited for when she figured it out on her own. He's waited for her to _feel_ something on her own, instead of impressing upon her his own feelings and unconsciously forcing them on her. He's waited to love her, and for her to love him back.

He waited, and waited, and waited.

Maybe he needed to stop waiting.

"_You'll wait for me?" he teases, scrunching up his nose as he presses it upon hers. He chuckles, trying to ease up on the somberness of the conversation. This is supposed to be a good thing, not something that suddenly made their simple and sweet afternoon of lounging around in his bed a heavy moment. Her hand finds his chest, prying him away from her._

* * *

><p>"<em>So you're really going?" <em>

"_Are you asking me to stay?" the dancing Football player watches her bite her lip pensively._

"_I'm not asking you to do anything,"_

"_You seem upset," he observes._

"_I'm not,"_

"_You aren't?"_

"_No, more"_

"_More?"_

"_I'm more than just upset, Mike" clarifies Quinn, brushing her fingers through her hair. "I get it; you have to go. It doesn't mean I'll suddenly stop being hurt,"_

* * *

><p>"It doesn't mean I'll suddenly stop being hurt," he summarizes easily.<p>

"You shouldn't be, Mike" she tries to touch his collar with her hands, but he slides them away from him. He can't have her touching him. She'll draw him back. She'll gain that undeserved, wordless forgiveness with a bat of those long eyelashes. He'd know, he's been victimized by it time and time again.

"Did you break up with Finn because of me or because of Rachel?" that's really what it came down to, he knows. He could see past the facts, past the rationale, if she could honestly say it's him. It's him she wants to be with, him she tore apart her relationship for-it's him that she loves. There's a desperation in his voice, but could she honestly blame him? It's his lowest point, asking the girl who clearly didn't give a damn about his own pride and feelings to say she wants him. Quinn may be proud, she can be _very_ proud, but he needs to hear it from her. He needs to hear her say it's him.

"It's not that simple-"

"_Yes, _it is!" he reprimands, clutching her shoulders with his hands. Leaning her back on his car, their bodies hot off emotional distress despite the cold, wet area, he stares at her intently.

"It's that simple; did you choose me because I was your _first_ choice, or because you were Finn's second," the flash of anger and hurt in her eyes gives her away, and he's sure he practically crushed her with his tightening grip. He can't see past the hurt, the insecurity, that was validated by the look in her eyes.

"I chose _you_, Mike, because I wanted to be with you,"

* * *

><p>"<em>I'd choose you… You know I'd want to be with you above all else," mumbles the dark-haired boy, finding his arms sliding around her waist perfectly. It's the truth, he'd be willing to give up his foreign exchange program into some gifted institution half way across the world, something his parents have pushed him to since him entering high school for her. Not surprising though, he'd do anything for her. Someday it'll be his downfall, he knows.<em>

"_Don't use that as an excuse to get out of this," so maybe she did know him better than he thought. Perhaps she did pay a significant amount of attention outside camp grounds, even if she didn't admit it. "I know you don't want to go," he hates it when she speaks the ugly truth. But he loves it too. Running away from his true feelings in regards to his foreign exchange program to Shanghai, amongst everything else in his life, and replacing them with more socially accepted ones is his forte. _

"_You have no idea how I feel about this, lemon" comments Mike_

"_I do,"_

"_You're assuming," he insists._

"_Tell me then,"_

"_Tell you what?"_

"_Tell me you want this,"_

* * *

><p>"Tell me you want this," he snaps, turning away from the blonde completely. He walks away slightly, pacing back and forth. It's as if his insides were being sucked in by the dark hole known as Quinn Fabray. He's always believed her to be the stars and the moon, the most significant and beautiful things in the darkness and tediousness that is a life condemned to this cow town. She's hurt him before, voluntarily or involuntarily, and he's learned to take it in stride. He's built a high tolerance for falling victim to Quinn's overwhelming path to self-destruction. He should be used to this.<p>

But for some reason, he isn't.

She'd given him hope. Moreover, she'd given him herself; physically, emotionally, mentally and sexually. She had given him a piece of her she hadn't given to her boyfriend of four years. She'd given him the one thing she had sworn to her faith and to her celibacy club she wouldn't. Isn't that enough to believe she wouldn't hurt him? He hopes so, otherwise he'd just be a fool. Well, more of a fool.

"W-What?" she stutters out, quivering in the coldness of the November air and the rain dripping along her bare arms. Turning to her, he sighs in defeat, slumping his shoulders.

"Tell me you want me. Tell me that you don't want to be with Finn anymore. Tell me that regardless of whether or not Finn and Rachel kissed, you would still be mine right now," he's hanging onto her words like it's his lifeline. He desperately hopes she doesn't cut it with her words.

"What I say won't matter to you,"

* * *

><p>"<em>Regardless of what I say, it won't matter to you. When you make your mind up about something, it sticks. I know you enough, lemon," says Mike simply, grinning wildly as he rolls up from his side and right on top of her. Adjusting himself so that his full weight didn't rest completely on her, he places his arm above her head. Toying with her blonde locks, he takes her lips onto his gently. As a young boy, he always imagined her lips to be soft. He's right.<em>

"_Mike…" she murmurs, interrupting their kiss. "Talk to me," sighing, he buries his head in the crook of her neck. Placing a chaste kiss on the porcelain skin, he groans quietly into her ear._

"_I mean… It's what my dad wants,"_

"_Is it what you want?" challenges Quinn._

* * *

><p>"It's what I want, Q" he states flatly. Her resistance already said volumes about her feelings towards their situation. But he denies the reality of it all. For her.<p>

"What you want is for me to say I don't have feelings for the guy I've been with for four years?" she snap irritably. Her tone of voice causes his anger to grow. He's the wronged one in this situation, how dare she suddenly have the nerve to be upset?

"So you don't want-"

"Damnit it, Mike! You're not hearing anything I'm saying here!"

"I'm hearing you perfectly well. I'm not an idiot," he grumbles.

"You sure about that?"

"Hey!"

"I'm trying to tell you what's going on with me, and you won't listen, because you're too obsessed with hearing what _you_ want to hear," perhaps he's not the only one with one or two disappointed hopes after all.

"So suddenly I'm the shithead here?"

"No, but at least let me say what I want to say!"

"Say it then!" he watches her gently, keeping track of the way her sudden surge of empowerment simmered down. It's satisfying, watching her fall off her high horse.

"I still… I still _care_ about Finn," she admits slowly, wrapping her arms around her waist. He'd offer his coat if he isn't supposed to hate her at the very moment. "He cheated on me, and I should be over it, and if I cheated on him with you, my feelings are obviously not real…" she rambles on. The girl was often times articulate. Now she was a rambling mess. It's neither the Quinn he knows or the Quinn everyone else does.

"You're rationalizing,"

* * *

><p>"<em>I'd be rationalizing if I said yes," Mike admits. "It's what my dad wants, though. And I'm pretty sure what he and I wanted have been the same since I was born," he's grown accustomed to following his father's orders wordlessly. Probably the one thing he had for himself was dance. Everything, he shared with his father, or influenced by him. His involvement with camp even, since he had come up with the excuse that they tutored children there from time to time, making it a wise choice. But dancing is the one things that is his and his alone. He doesn't have to share with anyone, or take anyone's influence. <em>

"_That's different from going to school in Shanghai,"_

"_It's not up to me,"_

"_Everything is up to you, baby" he feels his cheek redden at her words, and looking up at her, he sees hers do the same. They've kept things relatively the same, with the exception of heated make out sessions in his car and an attempt to have sex yet again, which ended up in them arguing. And then having sex. He loves every second of it though._

"_But, lemon-"_

"_You have a choice to make, lime. Do what he wants, or do what you want. You can't just straddle both options and hope you can still be happy. Sometimes, you just have to choose,"_

"_I can't choose,"_

"I can't choose,"

* * *

><p>"Then we don't have much left to discuss," she breaks the space he purposely put in between them, clutching his shoulders with her hand. She shakes her head adamantly. He's unsure if it's the rain or if true tears were falling from her eyes.<p>

"_Please_, you can't imagine how hard this is for me-"

"For you?" he asks in disbelief, staring down at her angrily.

"You matter to me too, lime. More than anything,"

"So why can't you just be mine? Why can't you just choose me?"

* * *

><p>"<em>Why can't you just choose you? Choose your happiness and your goals and your dreams," insists Quinn. He's surprised by the amount of outward optimism and strength she was exhibiting. It's far from the Quinn who bent over backwards for everyone's seal of approval<em>

"_Because it isn't about me, lemon. It's about him. He's sacrificed so much-"_

"_So suddenly because he gave up so much, you have to as well? Mike, if this is the way things work out then maybe you should just start being selfish," he bites back a snide comment about her own selfish tendencies. He doesn't want to delve into a conversation about her own relationship with her parents if he had no idea how he'd get out._

"_It's not that simple,"_

"_Sometimes it is, you know? Sometimes it's as simple as you want it or you don't,"_

* * *

><p>"I want you, Mike" she insists.<p>

"You don't,"

"Mike-"

"If you did care about me… This wouldn't be that hard. _Commit_ to me. Say you're mine. That you don't want Finn. It's not that hard,"

"It is," his patience wore thin. Pulling away from her, he fishes for the keys in his pocket. Unlocking his car, he hears her strained voice call for him.

"Can't I just love you?"

"No,"

**Author's Note: Took me awhile, but I tried to include a lot of symbolism and a different format in writing. Everything in italics is a fragment in the past. Review please?**


	9. The Sweet Suffering

_The Sweet Suffering_

"Idina Menzel is a Broadway icon primarily known for her role as Elphaba on Wicked. I must say that she is an inspiration to young women of today who constantly battle nasal-" Rachel Berry pauses in the middle of her Idina Menzel appreciation speech that always somehow flowed perfectly out from her mind, glancing up from her non-dairy ice cream. The Jew always had]s a habit of going into grave detail on some of the more prominent, Broadway women of the century, often times daydreaming about the inevitable day she be immortalized with her own Emmy.

She has no shame in her dreams. But she does have shame in the fact that a dollop of non-dairy ice cream rested on the tip of her nose, only to be brought to her attention when the smooth fingers of Mike Chang grazed it away.

"Sorry," she mutters bashfully, picking up the napkin primly placed on her lap. Brushing away the dampness the ice cream left on her nose, she gives Mike the most enchanting smile she could create. Rachel often times perfected her smile, knowing that when she landed her very first role on Broadway, she would need to be prepared for the hounds of paparazzi going down on her.

"It's okay,"

Glancing around the 60's inspired ice cream shop, forever lost in the modern times wherein ice cream shops were obsolete, the brunette feels a light wave of giddiness pass by her body. Sure, her heart and mind was set on the tall jock with the kind eyes, but Mike Chang wasn't exactly a step down either. He didn't talk much, but if anything she rather enjoyed his silence. It gave her plenty of time to talk.

"I must say, I'm quite surprised Noah had arranged this little meeting," Rachel tries to ignore the disinterested, dazed look in the boy's eyes, biting her tongue to stop more words from falling to the ground.

"But I'm positively thrilled to be here!" exclaims the talented girl, picking up a spoonful of her dessert and placing it in her mouth.

"I heard about the Aldrin Yu exchange program," this seems to catch the dark-haired boy's attention away from the lemon ice cream that was melting on his own serving plate and onto her.

"You heard?"

"It's quite the program. Mind you, I stir myself away from the more rigid, academic programs and more into ones wherein I can hone my own artistic capabilities. In fact-" stopping herself, she lets out a tiny giggle. "I apologize, I forgot you weren't exactly the artistic type,"

"Right, yeah well… I haven't decided on it yet,"

"What's stopping you?" she asks innocently, thumbing through the tip of her hair. She watches as his dark eyes flicker to her fingers, as if he's recalling something or someone in the action, before turning back to him.

"I know that if I ever got something nearly as glamorous or prestigious as the Aldrin Yu exchange program to _Shanghai_, I wouldn't think twice before going. It's not like anyone would miss me anyways," she mutters the last bit. Rachel hates the lack of vocal expressiveness Mike exemplified. She took great pleasure in hour long, back-and-forth conversation. But she's sure once she breaks him in, their conversation shall run smoothly.

"Finn would miss you," she can't decide if his words are meant to scratch her golden heart, or if it just does.

"You heard then?"

"Everyone did,"

"Well," she coughs inwardly. "It's not like it really meant anything to either party anyways," the split second eyebrow raise she receives from the Asian boy makes them both aware it's quite a lie. But not as big a lie as Mike pretending to actually _like_ being around her.

"You don't like me, do you?" Mike looks up, unnerved by her answer. Shaking his head furiously, he places his hand on her arm, sighing.

"I'm sorry, Rachel" he mutters politely, looking down on her wrist. "My head is just-"

"_You don't like me, do you?_" Rachel repeats firmly, capturing his attention. "Not really, anyways"

"I do like you," he insists almost too quickly. Rachel sighs to herself. At least he was trying, right? She couldn't say that much for the quarterback she had been pining for since kindergarten. Back when he was just Finn Hudson, the kind-hearted leader of the pack who kept the peace between the boys and the girls. Back when she wasn't called Ru Paul or man hands, just Rachel or Berrylicious. Back before he'd fallen right under the Fabray spell and was left forever enraptured in her.

"You've been staring at your ice cream muttering lemon for the past half hour and pretending to listen," she notes.

"First you talked about Spring Awakening then you talked about LGBT support because of your two gay dads _then_ you educated me on how non-dairy ice cream was accomplished and for awhile, you shared you opinions on Jazz versus Contemporary. Contemporary takes the cake every time, by the way. But then you started talking about how you watched Rent last night with your dads, which led to Idina Menzel," a low whistle escapes Rachel's lips. Maybe he was listening.

"You missed my slight aversion to the astrology and how Dorado looks like a dragon," Rachel mutters.

"Draco,"

"Pardon me?"

"The one that looks like a dragon is Draco. Considering you're part of the Harry Potter club, I assumed you knew that," she filters out the judgmental tone in his voice, years of bullying has led her to filter the harsher tones out.

"I'm merely a member in order to build up my credentials for Julliard or other colleges two years from now," upon her arrival to McKinley, her name was on every single miscellaneous club there was, including and especially the Glee Club. Rachel could already imagine the admission offices of every high profile college salivating at the abundance of credentials listed on her resume.

"That's nice," if anything, Rachel detests it when people say "_that's nice"_. She could feel them growing bored with her.

"How do you know so much about constellations?" perhaps talking solely about her wasn't a positive dating strategy on her part. She had set her bedazzled cell phone to vibrate every five minutes to interrupt her from talking about herself. So far, his responses were one words answers, but like most things in her life, she was driven to succeed. She would win the Football playing Asian after this little date of theirs.

"I just do,"

"Do you like Draco, then?"

"No,"

"Andromeda?"

"Not really,"

"Ursa Major?"

He shrugs. Biting her lip, she rests her back onto the leather seat, playing with the melting ice cream on her dish.

"Leo," he admits coolly.

"Why?"

"Why not?"

Sighing for the twenty-eight time throughout their date (she had kept count), she decides to switch gears for a bit. Perhaps he was just intimidated by her affiliation with Finn, or her newly acquired reputation as Finn's newest lover. Which was false, really, because as expected, he had dropped her almost as quickly as his history mark and made a go for his girlfriend, Quinn.

"Mike's a Leo, man hands. I figured that along with your background search on him, you'd have the decency to find out when he was born," the rigid, icy voice of the blonde head cheerleader made her freeze in her seat. Well, it could be attributed to her ice cream, but Rachel's almost ninety nine perfect sure it's Quinn's doing. Looking up from her half-finished ice cream, she looks up at those harsh hazel eyes. She's never been intimidated by Quinn per se, but the girl had the ability to crush her spirits. She has ever since kindergarten. Up to this date, she still has no recollection of what made the blonde hate her so much. Then again, now she actually did have some grounds. She did, after all, kiss her boyfriend. And may or may not have discreetly gone out on a number of dates with him, unknown to her.

"I wasn't aware-"

"Of course you weren't," she turns to Mike for support, but alas he had turned back to playing with his ice cream.

"May I help you, Quinn?" Rachel snaps, her brunette hair swishing in the air. She wonders if it'll ever be as impressive as the way the girl's high ponytail swished in the sunlight. Not likely.

"Q," both girls turn their attention to the statuesque Finn Hudson approaching them, his faded out jeans with ice cream smeared on the sides. Rachel fought the urge to hand him one of her custom napkins with little, gold stars on the edge. The talented Jew has to remind herself she doesn't have the privilege. She finds the entire thing incredibly cute, however. Something about Finn's innocence automatically made her heart skip a beat.

"Ugh, what did you do to your pants?"

"Puck-" he begins his explanation.

"Have I not told you about a million times now, Finn? Puck isn't a good influence on you,"

"Because he's the problem," mutters Mike to himself. Rachel notes a lump go down the blonde's throat.

"He was just fooling around," excuses Finn, sparing the girl a glance.

"Whatever," grumbles Quinn, turning back to the pair seated in the booth.

"Here," she slaps two laser printed flyers on the top. William McKinley High School was printed in bold at the top, with snowflakes and a picture of a dance, no doubt from Google, with the date, time and attire specified at the bottom. Fussing her eyebrows together, Rachel immediately looks up at the couple. She tries to stop herself from bawling at the absolute perfection of the two standing side-by-side. It truly did reinforce the idea that she and Finn weren't meant for one another.

"We already received this," Rachel says, picking up the flyer and letting the images shimmer in the overly-bright, florescent lighting.

"Turn it around," snaps the blonde. Complying, she sees a picture of Finn and Quinn from the Titans' last loss (0-4) standing side-by-side. As per usual, Finn still had that same dopey sparkle in his eyes, with his goofy smile to match, while Quinn stood beside him, her own classic, overly-exuberant cheerleader smile in contrast. She looks up at the blonde, taking in her less than stellar appearance. Take away her classic, American girl good looks and uncommonly shiny blonde hair, and all that was left to see was a girl whose frown was so deep, and whose eyes were so jaded with mystery and obvious pain. If Quinn wasn't exhibiting her usual passive aggressive tendencies along with her 'head bitch in charge' look, Rachel would have probably reached out to her.

"Winter Wonderland King and Queen, we're running"

"Shocker," mumbles Mike. Though this time, he looks directly up at the pair. Finn sends Mike a quick wave from behind Quinn, using his pointing finger to twirl around his temples while mouthing 'crazy' and 'help me'. Meanwhile, Quinn stairs right back down at the poster.

"Make sure to vote Hudson-Fabray,"

"That sounds _like shit_," a fifth voice interrupts the bellowing blonde, this time the rugged slur of one Noah Puckerman.

"No one was _asking_ for your opinion, Puck" Finn is quick to step in. On a normal basis, most of them knew, he would simply shrug off to the background to avoid the two flinging insults at one another. But considering he has recently won his girlfriend back, as to how he still had no idea, he's upped his game.

"Just saying, Hudson-Fabray sounds shitty,"

"Lay off, Puck" a sixth voice joins in, that of Santana Lopez's.

"Don't you want to win this, babe?" asks Puck rhetorically, waving their own poster up for Rachel and Mike to see. On it is a rather explicit photograph of himself and Santana in tight fitting, summer get-ups over at the highway, their empty wine coolers discreetly hidden from the picture.

"All these couples running," whispers Rachel to herself, looking out at the window.

"Maybe you and Chang can run too," Puck's suggestive voice says all too seriously. The female Jew watches as Quinn's cheeks turn an unflattering color of red, her grip on Finn's hand growing dangerously tight. Puck turns from Mike and Rachel to Quinn, eyebrows raised pointedly.

"Who would vote for Berry?" the Latina comments snidely, catching Quinn's own hazel eyes with her own. "She dresses like one of those creepy cat women who have Necrophilia,"

"Santana," Mike attempts to step in, Quinn's head immediately shifting to his direction. "Lay off,"

"Like it's any of your business," the blonde female snaps quickly.

"It is since they're _dating_, Quinn" those six words uttered tauntingly and pointedly by Noah Puckerman is all Rachel needs to put two in two together. Puck didn't set her and Mike up because her "loudness would dull out his silence" or because "the Changster has some wicked set of abs, no homo". Puck set herself and Mike up so that he could watch Quinn's emotionless, stone-cold façade break for a split second, and the look of pure _hurt_ overtake her. It didn't take a genius or anyone really _in the know_ of whatever is really going on to figure it out. Quinn's eyes were always pools of mystery, always hiding her true emotions. Now, she was more transparent than ever. It's so difficult to bear even for Rachel, that she turns back to her melted ice cream. As satisfying as it felt momentarily, she felt herself grow empathetic to the girl.

"Maybe we should just go…" Finn trails off, tugging on Quinn's arm in an attempt to put the awkwardness to an end. She remains perfectly still, staring right at Puck, jaw slacked and eyes filled with unadulterated hurt.

"Maybe you should," Mike repeats Finn's words, playing with his hands at the bottom of the table. Turning to him, Rachel realizes that it's not only Quinn whose emotions were put on the line for everyone to see, but Mike's as well. From the way he fiddles to his hands, to the ambivalent emotion he felt, it was safe to say that he was caught between satisfaction and pain, just like Rachel herself.

"This is the part where you _go_," Puck tells the golden couple harshly, his words directed more towards Quinn than Finn. Which, from what Rachel can pick up, is understandable. From the bits she put together, she immediately got the impression that the two had been involved. What else would explain Quinn's momentary lapse into humanity?

"Vote Hudson-Fabray," is all the blonde says before she untangles her and Finn's joint hands, briskly walking away. Watching as the girl retreats to the girl's washroom, she turns back to Finn, his apathetic stance irking her. She may have adored Finn for all of who he is, but at this moment, as she watches him let the "girl of his dreams" not-so-subtly hide her tears as she makes her way to the washroom, she couldn't be anymore disappointed.

* * *

><p>"He's with <em>her<em>," is all Santana Lopez hears come out of Quinn Fabray's lips. Truth be told, Santana had no idea Quinn's emotions ran this deep. For awhile there, she was sure the girl was made out of stone instead of flesh and bones. But this Quinn, whose shallow persona cracked under the immense humiliation and pain she had just been unknowingly subjected to by those around her, made the Latina reconsider.

Her and Quinn's friendship has always been a rough one, still is when she really things about it. Their constant competition, be it for men or popularity, always tore them apart. The number of horrendous things they had done to one another in pursuit for either thing was downright sinful, as her abuela would say. Maybe they shouldn't even be friends, considering the number of times she had put a metaphorical knife right into her back.

Yes here they are, standing in the middle of a dingy, low rate bathroom in _Sundaes_, Lima's local ice cream parlor. Here they are, being _there_ for each other, the way they never have been. Here they are, facing the undeniable truth that they aren't God's gift to mankind or stone cold, flawless robots, but teenage girls.

Standing behind her, she wraps her arms around the WASP-esque blonde, cradling her back and forth. In very few instances did they open up to each other. She could name a good two or three instances, really. And never has she once seen Quinn this hysterical.

Not when she had overheard her father calling her a "disappointment" out of drunken stupor during one of their sleepover's (it was the last sleepover Quinn had ever held). Not when Coach Sylvester had forced Quinn up in front of her Cheerios, pointing out each and every flaw from her curvier thighs to slightly slumpy shoulders. And certainly not when she had seen Finn making out with Rachel.

It's scary for Santana to witness just how much love could crush a person.

"I know, Q" she hushes the girl's fears, rubbing her back.

"How can _he_ be with _her_?"

"You did break his heart-" Quinn slaps her comforting hands away. The dark haired girl bites down on her lip. Maybe that isn't exactly the most comforting phrase to use.

"I did not break his heart. He shot _me_ down," she hears the desperation in Quinn's voice. Her desperation to have Santana agree with her. Alas, the olive-skinned girl wasn't that kind. Quinn may have issued very few details about her and Mike's fling, but it didn't take a whole lot for the Lima Heights Adjacent resident to know that this is most likely Quinn's doing. The girl had a habit of fucking up more times than she could count.

"And here you are with Finn,"

"Are you trying to make me feel better?" snaps Quinn hoarsely.

"No,"

"So why are you here, then? To witness my humiliation?" Santana scoffs.

"You're not humiliated,"

"How do you know-"

"You just got your heart broken," she states matter-of-factly. Santana knew the difference better than Quinn, she had gone through both (humiliation and heart break). Humiliation left one, well, humiliated. But heart break, oh Santana knew that was an entirely different case all together. And as much as she would love to cast Quinn's feelings off as humiliation for her sanity and peace of mind, she had to be straight up. It's the only _straight_ she is.

"That's preposterous,"

"Quinn,"

"I don't love him,"

"Bull shit," snaps Santana, shoving the girl's size 2, dainty figure slightly. The girl stumbles back, her hazel eyes illuminating with indignant rage.

"_What_ the hell is your problem, Santana?"

"What's yours?" retorts her second-in-command. "You're lying to me, you're lying to Finn and you're lying to yourself," she knew Quinn was looking for her to pat her back and say Mike isn't worth it. That she would live happily ever after with Finn. But if Santana had to put up with her inner self begging for her to be honest, so would Quinn.

"I'm not lying, Santana. Puck just humiliated me, and I'm feeling jealous, it's nothing more than that," returns Quinn flippantly, her tears running further and further down her cheeks.

"Quinn," Santana grabs her arm, turning the girl around to face her. "I would _love_ to sit here and say you're not heartbroken. I would love to tell you that you aren't in love with twiggy, the mute, Chinese-smelling Asian who screams virgin. I would love to make you go off with Frankenteen and live off your overrated, stereotypical romance. I would, Quinn. I really fucking would," sighing, she reaches for Brittany's feline themed handkerchief, holding it up to the hazel-eyed girl. As she nods, she slowly brushes it along the bottom of the girl's eyes, looking intently into those saddened eyes.

"But I love _you_ more than I would _love_ to make the pain go away," continues Santana. "You know that saying? Real friends stab you in the front?" Quinn nods. Of course she knew. The girl always had her nose buried in those boring ass books of hers.

"That's what I'm doing. If I let you go off thinking you're okay, I'd be stabbing you in the back. I'd be indirectly making you go through pain. However, if I tell you straight up that you are in pain and that you _should_ be, I'd be stabbing you in the front,"

"We're real friends?" interrupts Quinn snidely.

"You're ruining the moment, Fabray"

"Sorry," she mutters.

"You look like shit,"

"You're bloated from all that ice cream," retorts the blonde wittily. Santana giggles, pressing down her handkerchief on the girl's face, forcing Quinn to slap her away. As Santana leans back in to swat her with the handkerchief, Quinn pushes it away, a sad, teary smile flashing on her face. Immediately, they break into a swatting competition, Quinn trying and failing to push the Latina away from swatting her with the mascara-smeared handkerchief. Moments pass, and as they sit on opposite sides of the bathroom breathless, Santana turns to Quinn.

"Why are you here with Finn?" she asks seriously.

"The same reason you're here with Puck," deadpans Quinn.

"Because we're popularity conscious, weak bitches who keep searching for the unconditional love that's really just staring at us in the face?"

"You sounded smart there for a second. Careful, you might break the dumb cheerleader stereotype," warns Quinn, who rests her head back on the wall.

"You know, eventually you'll have to face up to the fact that you want your little Asian back,"

"Right after you come out of the closet, San"

"Wanna come out with me?" Quinn's eyebrows shot up, jaw dropping.

"Santana, you're awfully sweet but-"

"I meant come out of the bathroom, Q" Santana cuts her off from further humiliation.

"Oh, right" the blonde says dumbly.

"Q?"

"Yes, San?"

"You're stronger than you think. Some shiny plastic crown won't change what's going on with your dad," she whispers quietly. "But Chang… He might,"

"You know the same goes for you," mutters Quinn. "You're strong enough to be with Brittany,"

"Yet here we are with our beards,"

**Author's Note:** **Phew! I basically wrote this in one flash, no distractions. I like the two POVs I wrote it in. I figured someone needed to set Quinn straight, right? The next chapter should be the Winter Wonderland dance, assuming I don't add in another chapter I really want to do. We'll see? Until then, review!**


	10. Wonderland Part 1

_Wonderland (Part 1)_

Judy Fabray should have taken Quinn and Frannie out of the Fabray estate since 1999.

Judy Fabray should have forced her husband, investment banker and old, mid-west WASP, Russell Fabray, into Alcoholics Anonymous before he could lay his hands on either herself or her daughters.

Judy Fabray should have set an example for Quinn. A strong example about how women can be strong without men, denial only leads to suffering and love, when played right, can be beautiful.

Judy Fabray should have done a lot of things.

Judy Fabray didn't.

Cowardice is a Fabray's largest vice; the pitfall of their glamorous, shallow existence. It's cowardice that made Frannie pack her bags after she had graduated from William McKinley High School, take the first plane trip to Chicago and never look back. It's cowardice that made Russell Fabray down a glass or two of bourbon after one of his investments failed, or when his mistress pushed him back into his wife's arms. It's cowardice that left Judy Fabray in a rut (because as much as she loathes her life, she'd loathe it more if she didn't have expensive jewels, a powerful name and credibility in the Christian community). It's cowardice that compels Quinn to stand in front of her full-length mirror in her flattering, bright yellow gown like a girl straight out of a magazine, feigning a smile and her excitement, instead of coming out with her true feelings towards the evening.

For the past two hours, Judy has been observing Quinn. The girl had this day marked in her calendar since September. The junior Winter Wonderland dance, the second most grand dance of the year following Prom, is to be held at McKinley's dingy gymnasium in thirty or so minutes, and the future Winter Wonderland Queen was preparing. By the way Quinn would yammer on and on about it with Brittany or Santana, Judy had expected the blonde to be all giggles on the day itself. Instead, the elder Fabray watched from Quinn's bed as the girl pretended to even _want_ to go.

"Crown or no crown?" asks Quinn, her voice a slight monotone, but that all too convincing smile almost fooling Judy. Almost.

"If you're going to win, why wear a crown?" asks Judy rhetorically, swirling her virgin Pina Colada in her hand.

Quinn touches the plastic, silver grown with her fingers, picking at the fake diamonds. From afar, Judy could tell she was contemplating.

"Nervous?"

"I'll win," she answers simply, placing the crown back on top of her porcelain vanity, turning back to her reflection.

"Do you want to win?"

"It's an inevitability," standing up, Judy trots her way over to her daughter. The slight crinkle of her grown irked the elder Fabray far too much.

"The question was do you _want_ to win?"

"Who wouldn't?" says the cheerleader, pushing her perfectly curled, blonde locks to her shoulder, allowing her mother to fix her dress.

"You,"

"That's stupid, mom. I've wanted to win this since forever," Quinn's eyes betrayed her emotions. They always did.

"You don't have to want it, Quinnie" consoles Judy, rubbing her daughter's back.

"I know, I do,"

Deciding that Quinn wouldn't let up, the elder Fabray decides on a different approach. The thing with Quinn, she had learned, is to always touch on the core of her feelings, never skirt around with pointless questions. Especially ones that she could easily deflect.

"Finn's picking you up, then?" asks Judy conversationally. She feels her daughter begin to relax in her grasp, shutting her eyes and nodding.

"Are you taking his truck?"

"A bunch of us are taking a limo," answers Quinn.

"Really? Like who?"

"Puck, Santana, Britt, Matt…" the young blonde lists off her friends, only to be interrupted.

"Mike, too?" she's never felt Quinn's body become stiffer than the second that four letter word dropped out of her mouth. Jack pot.

"He's not coming with us," answers the young blonde, her voice tiny and lifeless.

Judy isn't the most perceptive of women, mostly because she and her _virgin_ Pina Coladas made it difficult to be perceptive, but she isn't oblivious. After parting ways with her bible study co-councilors one boring, Thursday night, she watches silently from the double doors of the Fabray estate as her daughter jumps off of Mike Chang's lap and out onto the sidewalk. She had half the mind to reprimand the girl who was making a class A fool out of herself.

But then she watched as she and Finn Hudson patched up their sham of a relationship, and she reconsiders her position. Because as much as she'd love to have her darling Quinn as far away from any man's favorite appendage, she'd rather she stay with the one who would at least make her happy.

She didn't have anything against Mike. If anything, she was quite fond of him. Quinn never came home past midnight, she hadn't caught a single one of Quinn's not-so-top-secret lace panties in the washer and really, it was an open change to see a girl so ice cold and ruthless have a semblance of a smile on her face.

But still, if the boy had anything to do with her daughter looking like a pasty, torn up Barbie doll forced into a gorgeous, yellow custom dress against her will, Judy would be the first to take her husband's baseball bat she had so cleverly hidden in the attic and beat the Asian boy.

Maybe cowardice isn't the only Fabray trait after all.

"Oh?" she feigns confusion. Quinn doesn't catch on.

"He's going with Rachel,"

"Oh,"

"Mom,"

"What?"

"You can let go now," the girl squirms her way out of her mother's dainty arms, dabbing a bit of lipgloss onto her lips once more. The elder Fabray is sure that's only the fortieth coat she had applied that evening.

"Finn's calling," Quinn's voice sounds drained of life and energy, the two things Judy ever truly did see in that fleeting two weeks she spent with someone who _isn't_ Mike.

"Are you going to pick up?" she challenges indirectly.

"I'm sure he's just calling to say they're outside," Quinn begins walking to her vanity, picking up her tiny, beaded clutch and stuffing her vibrating cell phone inside.

Judy should have commented on how Mike would have rung the doorbell and stood in the foyer, making small talk with the rest of the family. She should have commented on how _ugly_ (there was no way around it) Quinn would look on that stage with her plastic crown and her plastic smile and her plastic boyfriend and her plastic heart. She should have she shed her inner most secrets. About how sorry she is that this is their life, a life of beating around the bush and deceiving the world, even themselves. About how she was itching to leave her husband About everything.

She should have grasped Quinn's thin little arm, turned her around and told her that she's better than a crown. Better than putting on a smile and bullying others to make up for what went on behind closed doors. Better than Finn Hudson and better than her father. She should have told her she was better than all of them, and that she should go tell that dancing ball of energy she wanted him back.

But she stays in the middle of the room, right across the full length mirror. She stays there and gets a good look of what Quinn's future would be like if she didn't watch her step. She sees the possible pain and suffering the girl could endure if she continued on with this façade of hers. And yet she stays.

Cowardice is a Fabray's largest vice; the pitfall of their glamorous, shallow existence.

* * *

><p>Dreams were for the idealistic optimists who didn't see the reality of the society in which they live in. Or at least that's what Julia Chang had drilled into her mind since before she could talk. Dreams were dreams, something to fantasize about right before one goes to bed. Not something one built their life around. The world isn't nearly that kind. So she abided by the rules of her parents; college, law school, marry a fabulously wealthy and intellectually superior male and have a son. Everything that she barely spent two seconds dreaming about as a wide-eyed teenager growing up the in urban areas of China.<p>

If she could stand here in the middle of the Chang's living room and pledge that her life, right now, makes her happy, then surely she could allow her own son to follow the same path; suppress the desire for _more_ than mediocrity-select stability and live the life marked down by every person before you who has succeeded. But in Julia's heart of hearts, she knows her inner regrets wouldn't let her decide on this without a fight.

That's why, as she stands over Mike's shoulder, watching him begrudgingly fold his clothes into neat piles, she can't help but look at him with slight concern. Mike was always a quiet boy, playing by the rules and meeting their standards. The perfect son, some have dubbed him. But Julia saw beyond that. Not everything about Mike was clear-cut perfection. He was judgmental, blindly idealistic and a bit of an old soul, though his rows of Nikes and skinny jeans seem to contradict this idea. He had flaws. So did she.

She wonders when it became okay for imperfection to demand perfection of others or themselves. And when the perfect obliged.

"Did you pack your underwear, Michael?" the boy freezes, letting out a tiny chuckle before nodding. Even from her spot behind him, she could already detect the thickness in the air. Moving away from him, she circles his room, letting out a tiny cough to capture his attention.

"I can try talking to him again?" Julia tries pathetically, her dark eyes softening in pity. The Aldrin Yu program, one of the most prestigious one's in the mid-west; an exchange program between one student and another student of the same academic ranking; high grades, stellar credentials and excellent but unique skills were only a few of the prerequisites. And to both hers and her husband's joy, that crisp letter was delivered to their mailbox a month and a few weeks ago.

At that moment, it seemed like the ultimate accomplishment; all the opportunities, all the people Mike could encounter who would help him get into every prestigious college in the world. But then she saw him dance. She watched as his inner most feelings towards the program and just the things he kept to himself turn into perfectly choreographed dance moods. There was a just indescribable elegance, a sort of loudness and openness to Mike whenever the music swayed him through a routine. She's never seen her son more in love.

Chuckling to herself, she internally corrects herself. She has.

"It's still your decision, Michael. We can't _make_ you go," he shrugs.

"I know," replies her dark-haired son, playing with the tip of his tie. Walking over to him, she shakes her head at the sloppy craftsmanship. Men nowadays didn't have the slightest clue how to tie a tie, her son included. Clad head-to-toe in his father's green/black suit, Julia had to say Mike definitely looked like the strapping young man she had boasted to all of her fellow lawyers about. Now if only she could convince him that his neon colored, large Nike shoes clashed against his entire ensemble.

"That girl you're going with, you're not picking her up?" she feels Mike's neck tighten against his tie. Eyes flickering up to the dancing Football player's own dark orbs, she looks back down to his tie.

"The pretty blonde one, right?" it both bothers and reassures her when Mike doesn't even flinch at her referring to _his_ Quinn Fabray as a 'pretty blonde'. Even as a child, whenever Julia would call the youngest Fabray daughter that, either because she forgot her name or because she wanted to see Mike's reaction, he would react violently.

"No. I'm going with Rachel," Lima was a small town, Julia was fully aware the large-nosed schoolgirl is to be Mike's date. But since Mike's over-the-moon persona ended one day, to be replaced by a sulking mess, he hasn't so much as whispered a single detail about what had occurred. All Julia knew is that it had something to do with that Fabray girl. It always did.

"And you're not picking her up?"

"She's coming over. Her dads' wanted to save me the trip,"

"I see," Julia notes slyly, pulling away from her son.

"Yeah,"

"Quite the beauty,"

"I guess,"

"You don't think she's beautiful?" challenges his mother.

"I guess she is,"

"But not like that pretty blonde of yours?" both she and her husband had drilled respect so deep into Mike's being, she could feel him holding back his frustration. He and his father may be good at deflecting reality and avoiding emotions, but she isn't.

"Mom,"

"What happened?"

"I don't really want to talk about it," moving past her, he continues folding his clothes, one after the other.

"You never want to talk about anything,"

"With good reason," Mike replies simply.

"Did she break up with you?" she asks seriously.

"That would require us to be together, mom" his tone was bittersweet, like the idea of them together sounded so tastefully sweet, only to be turned bitter by the fact that they're not.

"Well then what happened?"

"Nothing,"

"It's never nothing with you and _lemon_," Now, Mike Chang isn't an aggressive boy. Anger didn't even seem to be a part of his vocabulary. But as Julia dropped his nickname for the cheerleader, desperate to evoke some sort of emotional response from him, his face flushed red, his knuckles tightening. She'd touched upon the ever-sacred camp memories neither ever spoke about, as if it was the most sacred thing to ever exist. She'd undermined their nicknames, their experiences and, to some extent, Mike's feelings towards her. Julia didn't think this, of course. It was written, on Mike's stone-hard face.

"She's not lemon to me anymore," he says through gritted teeth.

"What-"

"She just didn't want to be my lemon anymore, alright?" his voice is loud and frustrated, cracking in pain and anguish.

"Why not?"

"Mom-"

"Did you hurt her?"

"I'm going to go,"

"_Michael Chang Junior_," he stops mid way towards the door, sighing.

"What do you want from me?" he asks, defeated.

"To understand," he turns to her, blinking as he allows his mind to wander. Sighing, he looks back towards the only other woman who had his heart unconditionally.

"She just… She just couldn't love me,"

"No?"

"No," he confirms.

"Her loss,"

"Or mine,"

"Or yours," agrees Julia.

* * *

><p>Swaying along to the slightly off-key beat of the McKinley High School band, Mike Chang takes advantage of the pre-set silence between him and Rachel. Talking isn't one of his favorite things to do. Or something he did, really. At least not around complete strangers. Well, Rachel wasn't <em>really<em> a stranger, and for someone who yammered on and on like a chatter box, she could find it in her to be silent given the circumstance. But still, the dark-haired boy felt the night's festivities already draining him of energy.

Upon Rachel's day-in, day-out strategies to convince him to attend the Winter Wonderland dance, he'd finally budged. Mostly because he got tired of his mother packing away their meaty foods in exchange for carrots and salad to accommodate Rachel's kosher vegan diet. At least when she was around. Which was only every day since the beginning of December.

Mike, however, already felt a pang of regret for even coming to the over-hyped school dance. There were too many people, too many petty competitions that separated the mature from the immature and too many reminders of everything he's been avoiding. As he holds the tiny girl in his arms, moving along to the instrumental rendition of Teenage Dream by Katy Perry, the mild smell of citrus fruit from her perfume entered his nostrils. It was sweet, simple and uncomplicated. Just like Rachel.

He'd give anything to smell the complicated, bittersweet scent of lavender all over again.

And to top it all of, the beloved golden couple, draped in complementary outfits, were only a few feet away. Even from afar, he could feel his attention being drawn to the two. As did many people. But for him, it isn't because it's Finn Hudson and Quinn Fabray, and they're merely the two gatekeepers between social anonymity and success. It's because of her. Always has been, always will be.

He hates himself just a little bit more.

He hates himself as each second comes and goes. He hates himself for needing to pick up his jaw from the ground upon seeing her enter, with her perfectly curled up-do and her perfectly ironed yellow dress and her perfectly perfect smile. He hates himself for wanting to walk over to Finn, whose hands were lingering dangerously low Quinn's backside and punch him in the fact. He didn't deserve her. No one did. He hates himself for having a perfectly good, easy girl who had put more effort into being a part of him in a few weeks than Quinn ever did in eight years, and still have eyes for only her.

And most of all, he hates her. He hates her so fucking much. The way it was so easy for her to finally give him the time of day _after_ she became Finn's sloppy seconds. He hates how it was so easy for her to fall right back into his arms _days_ after their heated argument in broad daylight, water falling down on them. And most of all, he hates how she never loved him. Not really. Not the way he needs her to. The way he always has.

The way he always will.

"Mike," Rachel's sweet, flowing voice breaks him out of his period of self-loathing. Pulling away, he looks down on her. Perfect curls cascaded down her face, light pink lipstick covered her lips and a classic, Barbra Streisand-worthy dress hung perfectly on her petite little body. She's beautiful, and her smile. Oh, it was a smile that could trump the sun's brightness any day. Rachel Berry is sunshine. Easy, beautiful, whole-hearted sunshine. He prefers the moon or the stars, ever as mysterious as the first day he's laid eyes on them up to this day. It's then that Mike decides he's a good-old fashioned masochist. To the bone.

"Yeah?"

"You're being a little too obvious right now," blinking rapidly, he raises an eyebrow.

"Obvious?"

"She broke your heart, didn't she?" it's so simple coming from Rachel's mouth. Leave it to her to state the absolute truth with little regard for privacy. The Jew was always a little bit tone-deaf to how she acted towards others. He likes it.

"Who did?"

"Don't act dumb, Mike" sighing, she looks over at the pair swaying to the music. Cinderella and her Prince Charming. There was no room for tiny, unlikable, glee club losers in Finn Hudson's fantasy life. "If anyone would understand, it's me. I know what it's like, loving someone whose too scared and too _stupid_ to love you back,"

For a moment, Mike almost pulls away completely. Rachel didn't have a clue about his feelings towards the blonde. She had no idea what it was like to love like this, desperately and pathetically. But he recalls several instances from their childhood wherein a crying Quinn would fall into his arms, because Finn had chosen Rachel, at least for a good five minutes. He recalls how Finn would always make Rachel smile a little bit wider, sing a little bit louder in class (if that is even remotely possible) before turning right back to Quinn and leaving her desperate for more. Rachel was an expert on the abandonment in the hands of McKinley royalty. Maybe she did know a thing or two.

"They hang onto your heart strings and tug more and more, until there are no strings attached. Quite literally, they take all of who you are and crush it without even trying. And the worst part? We let them. In fact, we not only let them, we push them to, by offering ourselves up time and time again," she's hitting too close to home now, Mike realizes.

"Yeah, well… I'm fine," he's never been much of a liar. And from the looks of it, Rachel's not one to be lied to.

"No, you're not. Want to know how I know that?"

"How?"

"Because neither is she,"

"You spend all your time looking at Quinn now?" he jokes.

"I look at Finn… And Quinn. Together," it's a reality they both had to face eventually. Quinn and Finn were a package deal, no matter who they loved and what they wanted and how dissatisfied they were with their feelings, they would never budge. They were built as living proof of high school stereotypes. It's how they're wired.

"And?" it was his turn to ask the questions. Make Rachel a tad bit uncomfortable for a change.

"I deserve better," she concludes. "That's why I'm here with you," he opens his mouth, preparing to throw down any romantic ideals the little Jew may have towards him.

"Relax," she interrupts, raising her finger and placing it on his lips. "Better as in… I deserve more than to be Finn's little play thing. I deserve to be happy. I don't think I've ever been happy. In love? Yes. Happy? No," sighing, she smiles up at him.

"Doesn't he make you happy?" Mike can't help but ask. Quinn made him happy. She did.

"Of course… But he also hurt me on way too many occasions," now that he could certainly relate with.

"I'll never get over her," Mike isn't the type to share such feelings, let alone towards Rachel. Or with anyone. The thing about his love for the cheerleader is that it was always unspoken. Never expressed. Always just seen with actions and smiles and longing stares.

"You just… You need a change," considers the singer, picking up her hair and turning around, showing him her nape, where a freshly printed tattoo of a star, her star, glistened in the dim lights of the gymnasium.

"I did this… After Finn went back to Quinn,"

"A bit extreme…" Mike notes.

"Sometimes you need extreme,"

* * *

><p>"Michael?" Michael Chang Senior picked up the home phone, removing the tie that practically choked his throat. The background noise of the insipid music of today's rings in his ears, causing him to flinch and pull away from the phone slightly.<p>

"Are you certain?" the muffled, defeated response enters his ear.

"Tonight?" smiling proudly, Michael Chang Senior nods, already on his way to his drawer, reaching for his son's passport.

"I'll pick you up and get your mom to pack your things," just before his son hangs up, he calls for him, catching his attention.

"You won't regret this, Michael. A semester in Shanghai… You can learn a lot in that short amount of time,"

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: This is part of a two part chapter xD I wanted to wait until I had the other half done, but I figured I might as well post and leave a bit of a cliffhanger. This is basically the climax of the story, so pay attention :D The second half, I can't even begin to describe how annoyingheart-wrenching/dramatic it'll be. But this means that after the next chapter, we're halfway through :D Still lots to come though. Also, my friend created** graphic/poster (I shall link it on my author page)**based on the fic**, **so pretty, pretty please reblog if you have Tumblr, or just check it out in support of this story. And, I am also very much willing to take in what everyone else has to say about what should happen next, so it's a great reason to review! :D**


	11. Almost Lover Part 2

_Almost Lover (Part 2)_

Eyes gazing over the entire McKinley High student body, Quinn Fabray felt empty. What should have brought her immense joy simply left her empty. This is what she wanted. What she's _always_ wanted. Not the cheap, plastic crown per say. Well, perhaps the cheap, plastic crown. But she wanted this life. A life where she stood on stage, not as a person with significant talent or anything of that sort, but to be admired; for her looks, for her charm, for being Grace fucking Kelly in a classic, yellow gown. A life where everyone viewed her to be the epitome of perfection, regardless of her father's alcoholism and the occasional bruise that could be found on her hip.

Yet there she stood, her pinching, high heels digging into the soles of her feet, right beside Santana Lopez and Brittany Pierce, watching as Mr. Figgins called everyone's attention, feeling nothing short of imperfect. This was her moment. No one would think that Quinn held a heavy heart filled with evenings of domestic turmoil or that, deep in her heart of hearts, she'd give anything to be back at Camp Rochester-Fields. All they would see is that shining crown atop her perfectly pinned hair, her trophy boyfriend clutched to her side. She would be granted the ultimate escape, the gratification that her true life, her true self, wouldn't define her. Quinn could be perfect, so long as she numbed her heart and mind enough to do so, and allowed the shallow joy that Winter Wonderland King and Queen brought.

"You're about to get everything you've ever wanted," muses Santana Lopez, the disdain and envy palpable in her voice. Quinn should have felt proud. She's about to get it all; the boy, the ultimate status symbol-everything her little, head cheerleader heart desired. And yet, she felt nothing. No, she did feel. She feels filthy. Is this really what she wanted for herself? Finn Hudson, admiration from fickle high school twits and to hide from what is truly going on behind closed doors?

"I am," her voice is tiny. She doesn't hear herself anymore. Her shallow desires took over completely.

"And your McKinley High School Winter Wonderland King and Queen is…" says Mr. Figgins, his thick, excited Indian accent captivating everyone's attention. All except Quinn's.

"Finn Hudson and Quinn Fabray," loud clapping, followed by Finn Hudson fist pumping in the air, with Matt and Sam Evans clapping his back from behind, filled the room. Noise burst through the gymnasium and everyone's eyes were set on her.

"Of course Quinn won,"

"Surprise, surprise,"

"She's hot, it's the only reason why she won,"

Those demeaning, unsurprised comments the blonde cheerleader actually thrived on now felt like stabs at her heart.

She feels Finn's rough hands snap her out of her stupor, his kind eyes and ecstatic smile the first thing she had laid her eyes on. He leads her down the stage, the bright, florescent light landing on only them. The first dance. Oh, how she'd fantasized about this. Being held in Finn's unfamiliar but warm arms, swaying to the soft beat of the awful band and feeling everyone's eyes on her.

She made Finn Hudson out to be the prince charming of her life, the king of every Prom, Homecoming and Winter Wonderland dance, in her mind.

Was it possible that her _true_ prince charming, her _true_ king, not in the eyes of the student body population or society, but a _true_ king with every shining characteristic to go with it, would be the same guy who lay with her underneath the stars?

Quinn and Finn move rhythmically to the tune, their bodies pressed together and Quinn's head buried in Finn's chest. She's unsure how her crown had ended up on her head, only that it was there.

"Happy, Q?" mumbles Finn in her hair, his lips pressed on her scalp.

"Are you?" it doesn't escape her that Finn spent nearly the entire evening gazing upon that low-life Rachel Berry. Of course, she only realized this upon noting that her eyes were in the same direction, specifically at the tall, ball of dancing spirit beside her.

"Yeah," he returns half-heartedly.

"You, Quinn?" Finn asks again, his voice firmer and more persistent than it was initially.

"Great," she's not sure what did her in. Maybe it's knowing that Mike held the hobbit in his arms, smiled at her like she was the stars and the moon. Maybe it's seeing Brittany and Santana, so bravely swaying together from the corner of her eye, doing what Quinn should have been able to do years ago. Maybe it's being here, in the arms of the boy she'd stuck herself with, the queen of the Winter Wonderland dance, and knowing it isn't enough. But it had to be one of the above that made hushed, soft tears falls from her eyes, staining Finn's shirt almost immediately.

She feels him shift against her, jaw opening and closing, trying to find the appropriate words. "Hey, baby?" he tries to capture her attention, pulling away slightly and looking down at her. She could already feel Finn's loss of words as her tries to stutter out some petty, comforting words.

"W-Why are you crying?" asks Finn desperately. Quinn almost felt a pang of guilt for him. She'd stood between him and Rachel, because Quinn Fabray couldn't be alone. She needed someone; anyone. Perhaps Mike was right to suspect she had made love to him underneath the stars due to feeling unnerved. Perhaps Quinn did use him. Perhaps she truly is the stone-cold bitch who'd played with his heart and crushed it completely. Perhaps she did deserve this ending.

"Hey," Finn picks her chin up from his shirt, hands pressed against her face as he holds her up.

"What's going on?"

"I-I can't,"

"Can't what?"

"This… I can't do this anymore, Finn" his chest heaves up, eyes filled with confusion.

"Because of Rachel?" Finn asks almost immediately.

"No,"

"Then why?" Finn pries, pulling away from her completely and staring down at her. She could tell the kind of thoughts going through his mind. He had sacrificed his own happiness, forced himself to believe he wants to be with only her and pointedly ignored every longing stare that _should_ be going his way. And here she is, throwing it all away as if it means nothing.

Correction; it is nothing. Absolutely nothing. No meaning, no importance, no relevance. Nothing.

"I thought I could do this, Finn. I really did. I thought I could just ignore all these feelings," a light sob escapes her lips, forcing her to push a strand of fallen blonde hair away from her face. Mike would have pushed it away from her. "But I _can't_… Not when I have all these feelings for…"

"Mike," Finn supplies, his words edgy and heavy with annoyance. Quinn always believed Finn to be a bit of an idiot, but he could be perceptive when he tried hard enough. That or their feelings towards one another have been incredibly palpable.

"Yes. Mike," the rest of students barely stop to watch their beloved king and queen stand in the middle of the dance floor, too consumed with their own partners. In some ways, Quinn loved it. Being able to hide the humiliation and all. But at the same time, she didn't. She wanted everyone to hear; Mike, Rachel, Brittany, Santana, Puck-everyone. She wanted them to hear her be honest to herself, for the very first time in her life.

She expects Finn to yell, heaven knows she would. But he doesn't. He smiles, a little too kindly and a little too understandingly.

"Do you love him?" inquires the tall quarterback, slipping his hands into the pockets of his coat. He looks down on her, like he always has.

"Why are you being so nice?"

"I get it,"

"Rachel?"

"Rachel."

"We're both sort of fucked up, aren't we?" she muses bitterly, leaning against his chest and using the fabric of his shirt to wipe away her mascara filled tears. She feels his rough hands press down on her back, rubbing it in circle as he mutters silent 'hushes' to the blonde.

"I never should have done this," she admits somberly. "I should have just…" at a loss for her words, Finn picks up her chin, grabbing her attention. Smiling down at her, he rubs her jaw affectionately.

"You'll always be my first love," leaning his head down, he presses his lips against the corner of her mouth. Quinn shuts her eyes, the leftover tears cascading down her cheeks. She's glad the darkness and the melody kept their conversation between the two of them. Jacob Ben Israel shoving his microphone and slanderous accusations are the last thing she could imagine dealing with.

There's a pain in her heart, one even she can't fully deny. Say what she would about Finn, but he's been the first object of her affection. The first boy who had taken her out on a date, who slow danced with her during their junior high dance and who bought her a cheap, gas station flower. Her first love.

But not the love of her life.

Wrapping her arms around him, she lets a sad, emotional grin take on her face. She hangs onto him, because they've both realized that this is it. They'd won their crowns, reigned the school, fulfilled their teenage dreams, and now they're tossing it all aside for their one shot at love. It was unnerving to say the least. And absolutely thrilling.

"I'm going to be so happy," she chokes out, releasing his body as she tears away, moving past the crowd.

Santana was wrong. She didn't get everything she ever wanted. But she's about to.

* * *

><p>Sitting idly on the bench overlooking the parking lot, Rachel Berry's eyes watch as the raindrops fall from the sky. Clutching Mike's jacket which he so conveniently left in a rush, running off to his car after leaving her with a quick goodbye and a succinct speech on doing the extreme, she sighs, smiling to herself. She's seen the effect of the two destructive forces known as Quinn Fabray and Finn Hudson. How they could easily crush one's soul and leave the scattered debris. Not to say she's moved on, she hasn't. But her tattoo, her surge of musical inspiration in the form of song writing, the Glee Club's win at Sectionals-it was a step in the right direction.<p>

Imagine her surprise when a ball of blonde pushes through the large doors of McKinley, eyes wide and determined. Stopping dead in her tracks, she gives the tiny Jew a low glare. Gulping down the immediate lump in her throat, Rachel turns away from the girl. She could feel Quinn's envy from the distance between them, like the very idea of Mike being in some other girl's arms was pure torture. Add to that the fact that it's Rachel, whose whisked Finn away on more than one occasion since the first grade, she's sure the Winter Wonderland queen had half the mind to throw her down right then and there.

"He's gone," says Rachel simply, eyes flickering from the girl standing close to her to the rain.

"No shit, where'd he go?"

"Why do you care? Shouldn't you be out there with Finn?" asks the brunette vehemently, toying with the fabric of her dress.

"Not particularly," utters Quinn slowly, walking closer to the girl. Rachel lets her dark eyes meet the blonde's. Even in the darkness they still sparkled, kept a person's attention and never let go. Physically speaking, she understood Mike's affinity for the blonde.

"Trying to stir up the pot so that you two win junior prom king and queen next year, I'm guessing?" mocks the Jew, releasing the fabric of her clothes and staring into Quinn's eyes questioningly.

"I'm sure we'll win," answers Quinn simply. "But not together,"

"Why not?"

"We broke up," _'Finn Hudson is nothing'_ was Rachel's mantra since the two returned to McKinley, hand-in-hand. But the second those words came out of Quinn's mouth, she finds herself practically jumping out of her seat and back into the gymnasium. But she keeps her hands clutched onto the edge of the bench, stopping herself. Finn and Quinn, they could never be over. She got a tattoo, she went through a cleanse and yoga and borrowed every heartbreak book from the local library. The Jew couldn't very well just go back to Finn.

"Because of Mike?" she asks, her voice tight and out of breathe.

"Yes,"

"I see,"

"He loves you," there's a softness in her voice that startles the brunette. She's so accustomed to the harshness of her gentle, alto voice. It's then that she _really_ looks at the source of years of torment on her part. Those ice cold eyes seem almost enlightened, as if she had reached some sort of epiphany. No longer did she wear her crown, instead it was messily tucked onto the crinkled sash. She isn't used to Quinn Fabray looking anything short of an ice cold, beauty queen. She almost looks human. Almost. No human could have those uncommonly perfect facial features and appeal.

"So what?"

"How can you say that?"

"Why are you arguing with me, Fabray?" she shifts in her stance.

"Because I just said Finn loves you-"

"Are you saying that because you're _such a great human being_ or because you want Mike all to yourself?" asks Rachel mockingly, crossing her arms as she dares stand up. The door taunted her, opening and closing as gusts of wind flew past it. As if the opportunity came and went, just like with Finn. Just like with Quinn, even. Maybe they were perfect together after all.

"Does it matter?" answers Quinn rigidly. The blonde lets out a small sigh, crossing her arms as she walks closer to Rachel.

"It matters to me,"

"Mike. It's always Mike," Rachel's lips quirk up a bit. At least she was being honest.

"Well it's always been Quinn for him," she muses. "However, you're a tad bit too late,"

"It's never too late," she answers confidently.

"It is," staring right into her eyes, she sighs. "It's your fault, I hope you know that," perhaps she's being harsh. Maybe she did have a change of heart. Maybe she is ready to give him her all. But Rachel's seen this story play out time and time again, with Finn and with Quinn. The two are completely incapable of selfless, unconditional love. The kind of love individuals like herself and Mike needed and _deserved_ more than anything else.

"What is?" she can feel Quinn growing frustrated. She finds it terribly hard to care.

"He left,"

"You just said that,"

"No, as in, _he left_. Or he's leaving,"

"Leaving?"

"Lima. He's leaving Lima. Because of you," scoffing, she stares up at Quinn. It's a rush, watching her superior façade crumble. After years of falling victim to her, it was satisfying to watch the roles be reversed

"H-He wouldn't,"

"His dad got him a red eye flight to Shanghai," she murmurs easily. "He's already on his way to the airport,"

Rachel Berry knew Quinn Fabray was athletic, but she's never once seen _anyone_ run that quickly.

The speed Quinn is going in, Rachels's almost sure that if there is a maximum running speed in a high school gymnasium, she would pass it. She would be arrested, really. But she couldn't care less about her perfect curls falling messily down her shoulders or how she's sure she's shed more tears in one evening than she has in her entire existence. Mike. He's what matters now. Hell, he's all that's ever mattered. All that ever would, really. Mike Chang. Mike fucking Chang. Rachel Berry didn't owe Quinn Fabray a hint of empathy, but at this moment, watching as the girl swallows her fears completely and takes what's rightfully hers, no apologies and no more pain, she couldn't be more proud.

Raising her eyebrows, her gaze follows the distinct, yellow gown go through the crowd, only to be stopped by one Will Schuester, eyes filled with calm sadness, Emma Pillsbury lingering beside him, swallowing a lump in her throat.

Using her impeccable, 20-20 vision, she tries to make out the scene taking place between her Glee Club supervisor and Quinn. Scrunching her freshly plucked eyebrows together, she feels a negative vibe run through her body. Something about the way Mr. Schuester's somber face flickers with sympathy to Miss Pillsbury holding out her already-open, archaic flip phone made Rachel's stomach lurch.

Before she knows it, Quinn has taken the phone to her ear, running out of the gymnasium frantically.

* * *

><p>Up to this day, Noah "Puck" Puckerman can never understand why not a single one of the chaperones at these lame, high school dances has ever prosecuted him for spiking the punch with vodka. Surely he's not that excellent of a prankster. Or perhaps he is and its his Jewish roots that evoke this useless modesty. Then again, it's not like he sits around beside the punch bowl, waiting for Sue Sylvester or Will Schuester to take a sip of the punch and call him out on the booze. Nothing less badass than waiting to get caught <em>being<em> a badass.

Sloppily sliding on his half-punch drenched, oversized coat Finn had lent him, he's just about to make his way into his truck. He'd heard Rachel Berry briefly inform a persistent Jacob Ben Israel that Mike hadn't run off with some other Cheerio, but left to put his things together and leave for Shanghai, and that she would be damned if she had to dance with him.

Though the dancing Asian didn't necessarily tell him straight to his face, he's heard about it and read it in his advanced placement chemistry textbook enough to know of its existence. It's the complete opposite of badass to actually want Mike to stay, and as such he doesn't vocally express his longing for him to do as such. But even he can't deny that twinge of sadness forming in his heart. Finn Hudson may be his best friend, but Mike Chang is his _brother_.

The glue of the 'bang gang', the quiet kid who put up with his shenanigans, who shared his over-bearing father on some occasions, giving Puck some semblance of structure in his otherwise messy life. He'd been there for him, in ways Puck couldn't even imagine. Individually, Puck couldn't fathom the idea of him leaving.

Add to the fact that it would destruct the bang gang. Correction, _further_ destruct the bang gang, because since that hypocritical whore known as Quinn _Fuck_bray had intruded into their lives, its been nothing but bad news. Sure, the Mohawk-boy didn't want Mike to leave. But if it means he gets as far away from the virgin, self-righteous bitch who played with hearts just as much as she played with her hair, he's all for it.

Turning the ignition of his car on, he's caught by surprise when little miss Winter Wonderland came sprinting towards his direction. The rain had drenched her body completely, her curves highlighted by the street lamps, neither the stars nor the moon came out to play tonight. Quinn's dress swishes as she moves steadily, like a lion really, determined and fierce.

"Puck!" he pauses, rolling his window down as the girl taps hysterically on the dirty glass. Raising his eyebrows, half-bemused and half-curious, he chuckles a bit.

"Fabray, what the fuck?" he swears those are tears running down her eyes. Shaking his head, he fights off the preposterous idea. Ice bitches like Quinn never shed a tear. Not unless they'd get Finn's penis or _another_ crown.

"P-Puck," she's sobbing. Maybe he did underestimate her emotional depth. "Mike… He's leaving-"

"I know," interrupts the Jew. Of course he knew. Because unlike her, he had spent the entire night looking out for his heart instead of breaking it.

"Help me,"

"Why would I do that?" he spits back harshly.

"My dad…" she trails off, shaking her head. As if the words were too foul to come out of those sweet, pink lips of hers.

"What about him?"

"He overdosed on… On pain killers," it's the silent, unspoken secret of the Fabray's something everyone sort-of knew but could never really confirm nor say. Hints of the dysfunctional household couldn't be completely hidden from the public. Little things like the slight bruises on Quinn's dainty arms or her sudden absenteeism, which _coincidentally_ was a day after Judy Fabray was spotted in a heated, silent argument with her husband came to everyone's attention. How couldn't it in such a small town?

Puck wouldn't have guessed, however, that Russel Fabray would pick this night out of all nights to lose his shit.

Or any night, really.

"Oh," he tries to find it in his heart to sympathize, he does. But something about the way Quinn's voice was still so firm, how her eyes, despite the cascading tears, still oozed of the idea that she would forever be from Uptown Lima compared to his Lima Heights Adjacent. He sees the heartbreak on her face, but he also sees the heartbreaker. "I'm sorry," he apologizes, running his hands to the back of his Mohawk.

"Mike… Are you going to see him?" he sighs.

"Yeah, I'm driving with his parents to drop him off,"

"Here," before he knows it, a slightly damp, crème envelope is staring him straight in the eyes. "Please," she's begging now, and Puck almost wants to tear down the car door between the two of them and tell her he gets it. That he knows what it's like to have a dead beat father. That he knows she isn't okay, and that she'd do anything to be perfect enough, but it's too much even for Quinn Fabray. But he stays in his seat.

"Just… Give it to him… A-And if he s-still wants to leave…" she doesn't finish her sentence. She doesn't have to.

"Quinn!" Mr. Schuester yells from his rustic, vintage car amid the rain and the echo of the music inside the gym. "Let's go," she gives Puck one final, hopeful glance before turning around and making her way, rather quickly, into the Spanish teacher's vehicle.

* * *

><p>"Are there, like, cheap Asian hookers you can finally fuck around with?" the hushed whisper of Noah Puckerman, as to avoid the disapproving looks of either Chang parent, fills Mike's ears. Chuckling solemnly, he shakes his head, not bothering to give into Puck's antics. Stopping right before security, he takes a good look at the cheap, Ohio airport. It was far from impressive, but the airplanes always did make his inner nerd come out to play.<p>

He could turn around and walk away from the countless opportunities (which didn't really mean much to him, personally). He could re-enter his parents' car and go back to what he did best; playing second fiddle to Finn Hudson on the field and off the field, be Quinn's little lap dog and live a life of blissful, cold anonymity. Or he could alienate those emotions from the rest of his body, kiss his parents goodbye, give Puck one final, signature handshake and leave on a lengthy plane ride to Shanghai. His life would change, or so his father would say. Maybe he needs a change. Maybe he needs the extreme.

His mother holds him first, tiny tears falling from the corner of her eyes as she grasps her 'baby boy' close. She pets his hair, the way only a mother can, and expresses just how proud she is to call him her son. The tiny look of unsettled concern etched on her face doesn't escape the intelligent body. His father comes next. That signature, 'you've honored our family', smile on his face. He shakes his hand, pulling him into a brief hug as he goes on a bit of a rant on the type of things he should observe in Shanghai. Soak in his heritage, the education, mingle with some of the finest educators known in the world. The entire riot act of every patriarchal household.

Turning to Puck, who attempts to hide the slight envy gleaming from his eyes at the father-son sight, he offers him a king, gentle smile, clasping his held out hand. Mike raises his eyebrows as Puck's dark eyelashes stare down at their hands pensively.

"You okay, man?" he asks slowly. The Mohawked boy sputters out of his stupor, nodding.

"Perfect,"

"Gonna miss me?" he teases.

"Abso-fucking-lutely!" exclaims Puck, chuckling a slight nervous laugh that goes unnoticed by the Asian boy.

"You gonna be alright here? No one to get you out of trouble?" inquires Mike.

"Like I need to be," returns Puck cockily.

"Just saying,"

"You don't say shit, Chang," he mutters moodily. Sighing, he chuckles, nudging his ribs.

"I'll abso-fucking-lutely miss you, too" Mike responds, pulling him into a manly hug.

"What's that?" he feels something touch his ribs, something concrete in Puck's jacket.

He's silent for a bit, as if he's contemplating such a basic question. Finally, he lets out a goofy smile, shrugging.

"Nothing," nodding dismissively, Mike gives the boy one final grin before making his way through security.

"Chang!"

"Yeah?"

"Try not to get your heartbroken," as the three walk off, he sighs deeply.

Too late for that.

**Author's Note:** Okay, okay! Before we all kill Puck, let's look at it from his perspective. He doesn't have a father figure or a traditional family, so Mike and Finn and their gang is all he really has to call a family and male interaction. He's overly-protective, no matter how in the wrong he is, which is a canon trait we all know he sort of has.. Not to say what he did isn't wrong, heaven knows I'd be pissed, but he has some grounds. There you have it, guys! The climax! The next update will be a bit slow because I want to write the prologue for another Fabang fic I've been working on, so once that's done I'll update. At this point, I can be swayed into any direction, because I'm still finalizing the details on the second half of this story.

Since it's Christmas, let's give me some **reviews**shall we?


	12. Without You, Life Goes On

_Without You_

_(Life Goes On)_

"Open bar or BYOB?" inquires Santana Lopez, tapping her Bic pen on her clipboard's rim. Her face is serious and firm, almost as if she's some sort of world-renowned even planner not to be trifled with. After all, she did manage to get the entire Bang Gang, their counterparts and some of the younger Cheerios to gather around a single table at Breadsticks.

"Burt has some customers who sell those big tins with the booze inside," volunteers Finn Hudson.

"You mean a keg, Dudson" mutters Matt Rutherford, who stands behind Finn and Puck's seated forms.

"Oh right, that," corrects the quarterback quickly, scratching his head. The Latina has half a mind to call him out on his gorilla type actions when Puck begins to speak.

"Think he'd be willing to score us some?" Noah Puckerman pipes in, running his fingers through his Mohawk. A signature mannerism he could never quite shake off.

"I can ask?"

"I'll bring some shit, too. It's the ultimate advantage to having a face like mine," boasts Puck, leaning back on his chair as he scratches his fingers along his dark jeans.

"You mean looking like a forty-year-old, washed up American rockstar?" Santana asks rhetorically, voice laced with venom. Cocking her head to the side, she smirks an even taunting smirk, earning her an eyeroll from her former boyfriend.

"Do you _want_ this party to have booze or not?" snaps Puck. Immediately, Santana shuts her lips, turning back to her clipboard. In any other get together, she would have ripped his favorite appendage off with her sharp, colorful insults. But considering the circumstances, she opts to keep her lips shut. If only for her best friend's sake. That being Quinn Fabray.

Blinking, Santana can't help but have her mind wander. In three months, she's never seen the girl more broken. Just when she thought romantic confusion, cowardice and underlying affections were enough to break her, she gets dealt a brand new set of inconvenient cards. That being her rejection by Mike Chang, who they've learned to never mention around her, and the drama with her parents.

The newly appointed head cheerleader glances down at her clipboard. In grave detail is every single thing to be done, has been done and is in consideration for Quinn's surprise, seventeenth birthday. Normally, this would be some large event with the fallen blonde included. They would drive off to the next couple of cities and purchase the cutest, most affordable dresses from Club Monaco, buy every single fashion magazine of that month and place post-it notes of everything Quinn should receive and go through Brittany's dance mix.

But since current events, Santana opts not to even mention it to her. If anything, she would probably call the entire thing off. Or even worse; bury her nose in _another_ one of those books of hers. It surprises the raven-haired girl just how many books she had gone through in three and a half months. Then again, it is a healthier release than bullying, impromptu meltdowns in bathrooms and dating the teenage creature from Frankenstein.

"Kurt and I have already begun practicing our melodious, jazz version of 'happy birthday', worry not, Santana" Rachel Berry's voice breaks the girl's train of thought, raising her hand energetically, the other grasping Finn's. From behind her, Kurt nods supportively, pushing a strand of hair away from his pale face.

"It's sure to knock her cute little socks off," Kurt says, his words instantly falling to the ground as the rest of the more popular students of McKinley High offer him rather odd looks. Still, it is much better than being slushied.

In three months, everything changed. If Santana's being honest, she knows it's truly due to the fact that the queen of McKinley fell hard, quickly and rather tragically. Gone is the strong blonde who would strut through the hallways, Finn Hudson by her side. Gone is the head Cheerio everyone loved to hate. In place of her is the new, true Quinn. The true, broken Quinn hidden behind her façade. Complete with her collection of dresses, flats and curly locks.

It's a welcome change for their group, which has somehow expanded from the elite (that being the popular kids, the Cheerios and the Titans) to the rest of the rejects. It almost mimicked Mean Girls in a sense, the plastics and the jocks meshing harmoniously with the socially toxic assets of the student body. The only difference being that while Quinn may have changed for the better, it wasn't sprung on by an epiphany, more along the lines of heartbreak and family turmoil. As much as everyone liked the new Quinn, they didn't like her broken smile and distant persona.

"It better," says Santana firmly.

* * *

><p>"Hello Quinn," just by speaking two words to her, Quinn Fabray already felt her innate, queen bitch persona making the corners of her lips itch, begging to let a bitchy comment slide out. But instead she keeps her gaze fixed on the crisp page with the size twelve font printed clearly on it, Jane Austen's decadent, classic words consuming her completely.<p>

"Quinn," repeats Rachel Berry slowly, placing her hands side by side on the library desk. When Quinn doesn't respond, the Jew leans over, her tanned arm reaching for the book that had Quinn so engrossed, and yanking it away.

"Quinn," snaps Rachel firmly.

"Rachel," the blonde's curt response comes immediately, eyes fixed defiantly on the vacant space where her book once was.

"Pride and Prejudice?" asks Rachel conversationally, relaxing herself onto the cheap, plastic chairs of the public library. Placing her thumb on one end, the brunette flips through it quickly, watching Quinn tentatively.

"Yeah,"

"Didn't you read this last year?" the Jew notes Quinn shifting uncomfortably in her seat. Just the reaction she had been expecting. During her and Mike Chang's quick, fleeting friendship, she's learned more about the nature of their love than anyone else was ever privileged to; lemon and lime, camp Rochester-Fields, the star fetish, the bickering, Annabelle and Dylan-everything that defined them. Everything she _knew_ Quinn fought so hard to keep out of her life.

Pride and Prejudice, Rachel knows, falls under the list of things never to be spoken about. Everything did nowadays. Rachel, Santana; _everyone_ tip toed around _every _topic for the blonde's sake. Maybe they were trying to be good friends, but since she and the ex-head cheerleader aren't friends, she opts to face the issue upfront.

"Rereading it,"

"Why?"

"It's a good story," insists the Fabray girl

"Tell me about it," Rachel says nonchalantly, shrugging to emphasize her supposed ambivalence.

"It's not the kind of story you can tell,"

"Isn't that from Breakfast At Tiffany's?" Quinn cringes again. She hit another target. Mike mentioned something about hating the amount of times she forced him to lay down with her and watch Audrey Hepburn's classic film.

"I'm not sure," she quickly saves face.

"You're sure," returns the brunette firmly. Quinn doesn't meet her expectant eyes, nor does she honor her with a response. Rachel can't help but feel uneasy. This isn't the Quinn Fabray who threw slushies in her face or stole Finn Hudson, her current boyfriend, back each and every single time he strayed. It's as if the sadness, the defeat, consumed her completely and left her lifeless. Gone is the fighting spirit that Rachel loves and hates with equal measure.

"Quinn-"

"I don't want to talk to you,"

"You don't have to,"

"Talk to you? Good, I don't want to," Rachel scoffs, crossing her arms.

'No, you don't have to _like_ it,"

"Shut up," there's a hint of anger in her tone. Good.

"We've known each other since the first grade, when have I ever listened to anyone who told me to shut up?" challenges the musically gifted girl, a triumphant smirk flashing from her face.

"What do you want?"

"To talk,"

"Fine, let's talk," replies Quinn rigidly.

"So tell me then,"

"Tell you what?" asks Quinn impatiently.

"What's Pride and Prejudice about?" the blonde shrugs, running her fingers through her golden locks pensively.

"Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darcy. They fell in love," she's skimping on the details. She's avoiding the facts again, Rachel realizes.

"Why did they fall in love?"

"She was different. She was strong and stubborn and a feminist,"

"She sounds like you," murmurs Rachel gently.

"And he… He was quiet and unemotional; distant yet caring,"

"I see," she doesn't say Mike's name. She doesn't have to. There's that pain in her eyes, ones that refused to let anything shine through, that gave it all away.

"Rachel… Don't,"

"Don't what?"

"Don't do this. Don't try and be my friend,"

"I'm not trying to be," she replies simply. "Your friends are walking on eggshells trying to make sure you don't blow a fuse. Your friends are planning a surprise birthday party that you most likely won't even show up to just so you don't go home by yourself and wallow in your self pity-"

"Hey," Quinn slams her fist against the desk, standing up and staring down at the Jew. There it is. The Quinn Fabray fire. The one everyone thought they wanted to disappear, but really couldn't exist without.

"I don't wallow in self pity,"

"So what are you doing in the library, rereading Pride and Prejudice?"

"I like to read," argues Quinn desperately, her beautiful face scrunching up in frustration.

"Just say it, Quinn"

"Say what?"

"Say _it_!" snaps Rachel, standing up and staring right into those lost, hazel eyes. "Say it hurts! Say you feel fucking screwed over by Mike, by your dad, by _everything_ you once knew to be _your_ everything,"

"Don't you _dare-_"

"Say you miss him. Say you _hate_ him for leaving you when you needed him the most. Say that you still love him, that you always did, and that you wish you had done it differently,"

"He made his choice," Quinn's lower lip quivers, her arms losing their defiant firmness and slowly shaking. Rachel's aware she's over stepping her boundaries. She's aware Quinn doesn't want to hear everything she's running away from; her dad's drug abuse and alcoholism which sent him directly into rehab, much to the entire Fabray clan's humiliation, her less than stellar relationship with her mother and, of course, the heartbreak.

But she doesn't care. It's been clear since the day their worlds have come together that they aren't friends. Which means that the short girl is allowed this. She's allowed to get Quinn emotional, to push her to let it all out. She's allowed to hurt her with her words, with the truth. It isn't out of sadism, or the pleasure of watching the queen of everything be left with nothing but her pain. She's better than that, or at least she wants to be.

It's about the grief. The grief which the pretty blonde fought tooth and nail to avoid. The grief she needed. This girl, whose nose lives in books and whose emotions were void from her existence, isn't the Quinn everyone loved to hate. It isn't the girl that fought tooth and nail for her crown, for popularity, for Mike's love, for perfection, for her straight A's. Granted, old Quinn isn't exactly a walk in the park. She was selfish, self-conscious and cruel.

Balance. That's it. That's what Rachel knew she needed more than anything. To find a decent balance between who she was and who she is. And this balance could only be achieved through grief. It's the only way she'll reach peace.

"And you need to make yours,"

"I never got a choice. This is it, Rachel. This is me. This is how things are,"

"It doesn't have to be like this. You can choose, Quinn" she walks towards Quinn's rigid form, hovering closely. "Choose to be _alive_, choose to be sad about what happened," touching her shoulder gently, she sighs. "Choose to hate Mike for being, well, a dick and leaving you behind. Choose to confront your father about everything,

I don't like this, Quinn. This girl, who sits around reading and moping, isn't you-"

"You don't know me-"

"I know enough," insists Rachel. "What happened to the girl who made the entire McKinley school population part like the red sea? What happened to the girl that never let anything or anyone break her? What happened to the fighter I hated?" the blonde chuckles masochistically.

"She lost a lot of fights,"

"Isn't it time you tried winning a few then?" and with that, the dark-haired girl unclasps the blonde's shoulder. Leaning over and picking up her American History textbook, she gives the girl one final, kind smile and starts walking away.

"You know," she pauses. "No matter how many times you reread Pride and Prejudice, the ending won't change. Neither will the people or the things that happened before the ending. It's kind of like true life. Only difference is that it's not the end yet, Quinn. Don't act like it's too late; it isn't," turning away from the statuesque girl, she makes her way out of the library, her penny loafers noisily clashing against the ground.

* * *

><p>"<em>You know what I love about the stars, lime?"<em>

"_They look like diamonds?"_

"_I'll ignore the sexism in that comment," he chuckles. She laughs. "They're the same no matter where you go," _

"_Well, technically-" she doesn't slap his arm or interrupt him pointedly, she just smiles sincerely towards him, and he doesn't even bother correcting her assumption. He likes her like this, open, vulnerable and idealistic. His Quinn. The real Quinn._

"_Sometimes when I miss you, I just look up at the night sky and remind myself that you'll see the same thing," Quinn relaxes her head against his chest, which heaved up and down rhythmically. Even at thirteen-years-old, Mike Chang knows where his heart is; with her. It's scary; being this in love, this young and this impressionable. But it's a rush. At thirteen-years-old, he may not be able to guarantee that he'll love her forever, but he can guarantee that he loves her. Considering they're young and stupid, he considers the depth of his feelings to be enough. For now. _

"_So that's not just me then?" asks Mike, chuckling as he wraps his arms around the tired blonde resting in his arms._

"_It never is,"_

_Smiling, the dark-haired boy nods, keeping his eyes fixed on the sky. There's something so pure and consistent about the night sky that leaves him feeling still. With the speed of things, it's nice to know he doesn't have to move along with them. At least for a moment._

"_We have this,"_

"_Hm?"_

"_We have this, lime. Even if we aren't friends outside of camp," he flinches. "We have the stars to keep us tethered,"_

"_You sound corny as fuck," she cringes at the coarse word that slips through his mouth. _

"_I love you, too"_

"What time is it there?" Puck's rugged voice asks conversationally through the speakers of Mike Chang's blackberry. Staring down at the watch clasped all too tightly on his left arm, he shrugs, almost as if his running back best friend could see. "Two forty three in the morning,"

Mike Chang hardly ever slept late. It isn't in his nature, with the exception of late nights spent over analyzing what used to be the nature of his relationship with Quinn or playing video games. But since arriving in the private school's dorms, he could never find himself going to bed at a decent hour. At first, he blames the large time difference. It was natural for him to not sleep, he would tell himself. But then a few sleepless nights turned into weeks of sleepless nights. At some point Mike can't recall, he's given up on sleep completely and resorted to taking his iPod and sitting up at the building's rooftop.

"I don't want to ask why you're not sleeping, but-"

"Then don't," replies Mike simply.

"How are classes?"

"Hard and a bit of a drag," he's downplaying his lack of enthusiasm. There isn't a single free area for him to practice dance in the rigid, private school filled with driven, genius IQ worthy, Shanghai born and bred teens. Mike doesn't have too many friends, but it's not like he was seeking them to begin with. He didn't come to Shanghai to make relationships, he came here to get over the ones that disappointed him greatly. And for the most part, it worked. With the workload, culture shock and pure, unadulterated distance, he hardly ever thought about her _during the day. _The night, however, is an entirely different story.

"Like it there?"

"No," Puck chuckles. He smiles to himself.

"I don't want to ask about what's going on there-"

"Then don't," returns Puck pointedly.

"Fine, I won't," Mike smirks to himself. Probably the best thing about having a best friend whose mouth could hardly ever be shut is that prying is completely unnecessary.

"There's gonna be a party," offers the Mohawk-styled boy.

"Oh?"

"At Santana's," he continues.

"For?"

"Quinn,"

"Oh," he said her name enough in his sleep, whist drunk off alcohol or just halfway through a completely irrelevant thought. But hearing someone else say her name made those feelings came rushing back.

"Miss her?"

"I'll talk to you tomorrow, Puck" returns Mike swiftly, already pulling the phone away from his ear, tucking it into his pocket. Staring up at the sky, he sighs.

At least they have the stars to keep them tethered.

**Author's Note: **Happy New Year, everyone! I had a lot of time to write this update on New Year's, so here. Took me awhile and it's pretty short, but now we're re-introduced to Fabang 3 months and a bit later :D Review!


	13. Never Can Say Goodbye

_Never Can Say Goodbye_

It's a regular Saturday evening in the all-male academy in the heart of Shanghai. Pacts of boys bustled in and out of the building, gleeful grins on their faces as they go forth to enjoy everything the weekend had in store. Considering the fact that their classes went twice as long, with twice the amount of homework load as Mike Chang is accustomed to, he finds it understandable why they would yearn to escape and let loose. From the little bit that he's heard from his three other roommates, a party is to be held at an upper classman's summer townhouse just a bus ride away. Seeing as how the privileged, prep school boys hardly ever got a chance to stray from their rigid schedule, the party easily became the talk of the school in seconds.

Surprisingly enough, despite Mike's emotionless, apathetic impression on the rest of his classmates, he still managed to be invited. Who wouldn't want the "dancing, American boy" to tag along? Surely it would be entertaining to listen to him converse in Americanized Cantonese, his American accent vibrating through, for the rest of the boys.

Mike uses this as a good enough excuse to decline his invitation. Truth be told, he preferred to stay as far away from parties as humanly possible. All that interaction, that _fun_ is something he's grown to be a stranger to. And above all else, he'd much rather prevent any sort of attachment to grow between him and his fellow schoolmates. As much as he would like to say it's due to his impending return come the end of March, it's really just a defense mechanism. By keeping his relationship with them purely platonic, maybe he'll learn a thing or two about detachment.

But then his phone rings. Amid the tune of The Killers and Mike's off beat humming, his cell phone manages to make the incoming call known. Placing his finger onto the edge of his book, Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen (he opts to ignore the irony of it for his own sanity), he tilts it before shutting the hardbound novel completely. Tossing it lazily onto his side, he recklessly jumps down from his top bunk, legs shaking slightly as he runs for the phone. It could only really be one of three people; Puck, his mom or his dad.

Those were really the only people that cared to call, anyways.

Plopping himself onto the charcoal desk, he picks up the wireless phone. As he plays with the loose thread on his jeans, he stops chewing on his lemon flavored gum long enough to listen to the voice on the other end. He anticipates Puck's loud, obnoxious voice, his mother's soft-spoken tone or his father's strict yet loving tirade.

To his surprise, a sweet, feminine voice emanates into his left ear.

"Still listening to the same old junk from the summer, Mike?" he practically drops the phone. That voice. He knows that teasing voice. He's heard it since he was ten-years-old.

"Annabelle?"

"The one and only, champ" he hears bustling from the background. He hears everything.

"How are you?" he asks. Mike has never been too fond of phone conversations. It required more talking than it would in public. And as anyone who has ever interacted with Mike Chang knows, silence is his forte. Unless, of course, he's with _her_. But he avoids even letting her name enter his mind. That just opens up too many wounds.

"Working the morning shift at the diner," his mind floats to that diner in which Annabelle spoke about. Mike recalls finding his way there at least three times every winter day. He'd sit in the corner booth, eating ramen Annabelle had made especially for him and wordlessly express to either Annabelle or Dylan his secret sorrow. Because Quinn or his parents or his friends did something to irk the response. Maybe Quinn looked past him that day, and maybe he took it a bit harder than he should have. Or maybe his father admonished his A minus on the last chemistry test. Either way, something would set him off, and he'd sit in the diner and eat his heart out without so much as a word.

"Right,"

"And you?"

"Not much," safe answers. Yes, safe, simple answers. It's the only way he can manage through an entire conversation without the camp counselor bringing _her_ up.

"You really left for Shanghai?"

"It's a great opportunity," Mike hears that characteristic sigh of hers and feels his heart pound faster. He's unsure of what brought such a reaction on. This should be comforting. But it isn't.

"To become your father?"

"For anyone," he mutters.

"Because you want to be a brain surgeon, right?" she's better at reading him than he remembered.

"It'll look great on college applications," he smiles triumphantly to himself. There's not much she could do to tear down that response.

"Because Julliard or Tisch would care that you sold out to a foreign exchange program?"

"I like it here," the lies have begun. He's never been much of a liar.

"Or you just don't like it _here_," Annabelle corrects.

"Anna-"

"Lemon told me about what happened," the dancing football player feels his palms clam up. His voice hitches in his throat. He always thought hearing her name would be what did him in. But it isn't. It's the reminder that, through everything, she _may_ still be the lemon to his lime. The girl with the lavender scent that always complimented the scent of the sun he carried along with him. The girl who would gape up at the night sky, name constellations and make a wish. His best friend. Amid everything that happened between them, he almost forgot that detail. She was his best friend first and foremost.

"About what happened…" he trails off, eyes glued to the ground, anticipating Annabelle's response.

"Oh, you know. Boyfriend drama and prom drama-"

"It was the Winter Wonderland dance," he pipes in.

"The one with the plastic crown, right?"

"Right," he replies.

"And you leaving her,"

"I didn't leave her," he snaps, perhaps too harshly and too curtly.

"You didn't?"

"_No_," Mike's voice begins to constrict. He's unsure of how long he can keep his voice tempered and ambivalent.

"Right,"

"Annabelle," groans Mike.

"So you picking up your bags for a semester in Shanghai isn't leaving her?" he gulps.

"All you know is her side of the story," he responds plainly.

"Then tell me yours,"

And so, just like that, Mike put every emotion he had kept neatly bottled up in the deepest areas of his heart and mind out in the open for Annabelle to hear. Things like how he feels invisible, because if he isn't, Quinn would have come after him. Someone would be sending him e-mails. Someone would _care_.

He dives into his resentment towards Finn Hudson. Because he had it all. He had _her_. He had Rachel who, in her own right, is a shining gem amid the rocks. He had football and a voice and social skills. He had everything Mike has ever wanted and never got.

Mike then moves onto Quinn. Now that topic certainly took up a majority of their conversation. He has never been aware of how much anger and disappointment he felt towards her as _his_ Quinn. Throughout their years as seasonal friends, he's wired himself to see the best in her, to hope for the best and have faith that someday, she would grow out of her flaws. But she doesn't. No matter what hints Puck may drop about her becoming someone completely different, he knows she's still the same selfish, frightened girl he spent too many nights having both dreams and nightmares about. He talks about how much it killed him to watch her dance with Finn that night or how Rachel made it known through one rather lengthy e-mail that Quinn was perfectly aware of him leaving before he actually left. She _knew_ and she let him leave. That probably hurt the most.

And at some point throughout his rant, he brought up his father. His need to make _him_ happy. Because family is all that matters and family is all that will ever matter. So what if he yearned for individuality and honesty between himself and his father? It wouldn't make much of a different. From what he's learned from Quinn, his parents-everyone-love is conditional. There's no way around it, no way to change it. At the end of the day, it is what it is.

Annabelle remains silent for the most part. She nods and mutters silent words of encouragement to keep him going. Then at the end of it all, she sighs and remains speechless for what seems like an eternity. He keeps his eyes glued to the ground. He's never felt so free. He's never felt so _light_. Maybe Quinn Fabray is truly done weighing him down.

But then Annabelle brings up the topic of Quinn's father. From what Mike can vaguely make out, her father had gone into an overdose, annulment procedures were taking place and she didn't wear a high pony whilst riding her high horse.

Their conversation ends with the usual courteous, "say hello to Dylan for me" and "be safe". But as he places the phone back onto its designated place, climbs back onto his bunk bed, he tells himself _one_thing;

"You are over Quinn Fabray. You are over Lima. You are over them all. You won't go back,"

* * *

><p>"You look beautiful," those penetrating, hazel eyes drift away from their reflection, meeting those dark brown ones of the figure lingering behind her. Finn Hudson stands behind her, hands shoved into the pockets of his dark brown pants, which he undoubtedly fished out of his father's things. She looks into his inquisitive dark eyes, searching for any form of malice or resentment behind his words. She finds none.<p>

"Don't I always?" it's a classic line head cheerleader Quinn Fabray would have said, head most likely cocked to the side, that delicious grin of hers in sync to the movement. But hearing the words come out of her mouth feel incredibly uncharacteristic. Which is really something considering she's Quinn Fabray.

"I can't argue with you on that one," Finn concedes, smiling kindly at petite girl standing before the full-length mirror. What began as a surprise birthday party for Quinn and a few of her friends instantly became the talk of the town. Which isn't really that impressive, considering the town isn't all that big. But to keep such a large party a secret from her wouldn't really be the easiest thing.

As such, she now stands before her mirror, clad in a flimsy, conservative crème cocktail dress, the sleeves hanging loosely on her thin shoulders. Her usual curls have been straightened, thanks to Santana Lopez herself, and now fell sleekly down her back. Quinn's eye catching orbs have been emphasized more by the smoky make up around the edges, whilst her lips were a tantalizing shade of light pink. A vision in crème; perfection in a size 2, 5"6 body.

Yet no matter how many times she tells herself she's perfect, the way she always did to boost up her ego, it doesn't work the same way it did before. No longer can she be fooled by her beautiful face and even more beautiful prospect of being the most beloved, most popular girl of McKinley. She sees past it now. She sees the ugly. She's unsure if she can handle it. But Quinn keeps on staring, the way one would when a car crash is displayed on the highway, hoping and praying some beauty comes of it.

"So what's it like downstairs?" inquires Quinn silently, tearing her gaze away from her own reflection. As her eyes land onto Finn's kind, worried face, she attempts a smile. It comes off as more of a cringe.

"Loud,"

"Loud?"

"Oh, and there are kegs,"

"_Kegs?"_ hisses Quinn vehemently. Immediately, her tall, ex-boyfriend chuckles.

"Kegs," he confirms.

"Why on Earth would there be _kegs_?"

"Because it's a high school party," sighing, Quinn swats the air with her arm. Why bother making a fuss? This isn't her house and it isn't her responsibility. People could pass out on the sidewalk and she wouldn't have anything to do with it. In the same sense, it's not like anyone downstairs even remembered this is her birthday. All the better, really. Because if she's being honest, despite Santana's wild, thoughtful attempt at throwing her a wild party, she'd much rather spend the night in bed with a book.

Just like every other night.

"Q," begins Finn conversationally, touching her bare shoulder as he stares down at her. Nearly six years as each other's childhood sweetheart, two years as puppy love, middle school preteens and two as the golden couple of McKinley, and it's only now that they've ever become truly intimate. Often times, both of them would speculate over why they never grew close as a couple. Then, as their relationship fell into seams and their good reputations became non-existent, they found themselves bonding over their similarities. Their need to be _liked_, need for validation through approval, yearning to truly be seen for who they are. All the potential for them to be close has always been there. It just needed a spark. And this, their definite end as a couple, is just the spark.

"You know… I get it," _first Rachel, now Finn. Might as well bring the entire bloody student body in here to talk to me,_ she thinks angrily to herself, biting it back with a passive nod.

"Get what?"

"Why you don't want to go down there," she scoffs, tearing her eyes away.

"It's a bunch of no good, backstabbing teenagers passing wine coolers around. That's good enough a reason to want to run for cover," it's witty enough to pass off as genuine, but like any other circumstance, her eyes betray her.

"You've always been good with excuses,"

"I'm good at a lot of things,"

"Except being honest," she shrugs, pushing past his grasp and to Santana's vanity. Picking up the same lipstick she now wears, she removes the cap, sliding it on her lips.

"Honesty is overrated,"

"Like denial," she shrugs yet again.

"I'm not in denial," he scoffs.

"You are,"

"Who are you to tell me what I do and do not feel or do?" what's there to know, anyways? She knows she's a mess, they know she's a mess. There's no denial going on. If anything, it's a coping mechanism. Something to keep her sane.

"A friend,"

"But _who_ are you? You have _no_ idea what it's like, having your entire life fall apart!" Quinn snaps, eyes blazing with frustration. Her nasally voice cracks slightly, the pain and irritation eminent in her tone.

"I don't have to-"

"Why the hell not?" she asks, slamming her hand onto the vanity, eyes wide with anger. Since when did she become the poster girl for trainwrecks all across Lima?

"Because I'm your _friend_, Quinn!" Finn exasperates. "I don't need to have a messed up love life or a messed up family-" she flinches at the harsh reality of his words. "To be able to sympathize,"

"Do you even know what sympathize means?" she asks cruelly.

"Quinn-"

"I don't need you," she cuts him off immediately. "I needed _one_ person," she gulps. "And take a look around, Finn. He isn't here. Don't try and take his place just because you feel bad that, against all odds, you got your happily ever after,"

For a good five minutes, the only thing that can be heard in Santana Lopez's bedroom is the sound of stereos blasting and yelling. They could feel the vibrations of the bodies that are undoubtedly rubbing against one another just one level down.

"Can I walk you down? One last time?" it's typical Finn, never prying, never pushing. Now she remembers why she liked him so much. She could always keep her emotions intact. Nodding, she thoughtlessly wraps her arm around his, which he had already extended. As they walk out of Santana's bedroom and down the stairs, as expected the party is in full swing. Clad in their slightly dressier outfits, most of the McKinley high juniors and students from other high schools, scattered all across the Lopez's household. A sea of people catch her eye, all walking up to her with grins and words which she cannot comprehend.

How can she when Mike Chang is standing on the opposite side of the room?

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Told you he'd be back! Review! It's definitely not smooth sailing for Fabang yet :D


	14. If You're Not Here, I'm Paralyzed

_If You're Not Here, I'm Paralyzed_

* * *

><p><em>Shot number one<em>

"Quinn-"

"He looks like a stick with spiked up hair," grumbles Quinn Fabray, voice laced with venom as she watches darkly from the Lopez's kitchen. Beside her, Santana Lopez and Brittany Pierce watch worriedly as their on-again, off-again Queen Bee played with the empty shot glass she held in her hand.

The party is in full swing, just like every other signature Lopez-Puckerman mash up. At one corner, Tina Cohen-Chang just beat Mercedes Jones in a game of Just Dance 3, her jokingly obnoxious trash talk being heard all the way from the kitchen. The seniors linger around the couches, ties loose as they play spin-the-bottle with over-eager freshmen. The sound of Without You by David Guetta rings all throughout the large household.

"And what is with that shirt? Has no one told him that the whole dapper look is reserved for that curly-haired, dapper faced, bow tie wearing prep school boy Kurt's humping from behind at Breadsticks?" continues the blonde bitterly.

"He looks bigger, actually. His arms are super ripped-" Brittany comments, earning a stern, reprimanding look from the tiny blonde leaning against the island of the kitchen.

"He looks like a skinny Asian brat!" Quinn re-emphasizes.

* * *

><p><em>Shot number two<em>

"Look at him, soaking up _my_ oxygen," both girls glance around the entire area in their sight, trying to find the boy who had led the anti-alcohol, WASP to go through tequila as if it it's mother's milk.

"Where?" asks Santana inquisitively.

"_Over there_!" she points right across the counter, rather lazily, at the leftover slice of lime that had been left behind by some thoughtless, inconsiderate bastard who probably didn't even know this was _her_ party.

"That's a lime…" trails off Santana. Standing up straight, Quinn violates Santana's personal space, shoving her face close to her, eyes wide and wild.

"_Exactly_,"

* * *

><p><em>Shot number three<em>

"Do you know that he collects all of his receipts and puts them in some stupid binder?" slurs Quinn, falling back slightly as a body accidentally collides with hers. Grabbing her instantly, her Latina best friend holds her back up.

"I didn't, Q" she replies with a sigh.

"I collect Lord Tubbington's 'leftovers' and send them to a Leprechaun to turn it into chocolate," adds Brittany, smiling widely at her two best friends.

"And you know what else he does? He _cries_. Yeah! Every single time we watch Mulan and we get to the part where she goes back to her dad? _He cries!_" screeches the tipsy blonde, snickering to herself at the memory.

"Does he?" Santana asks half-heartedly, subtly taking hold of the shot glass Quinn hung onto for dear life.

* * *

><p><em>Shot number four<em>

"_I AM LOST, I AM VAIN! I WILL NEVER BE THE SAME WITHOUT YOU! WIIIITTHHOOUUT YOU!"_ The birthday girl sings, rather off beat, as she swings her well-rounded ass to the beat of David Guetta's song. Placing her hands against the counter, she attempts to pull herself on top of the island counter. Quickly, Santana and Brittany share an urgent glance before grabbing the girl by the waist, pulling her down.

"LET ME GO! LET ME GO!" yells Quinn stubbornly. "I AM SIMBA, YOU TWO. I AM THE LION QUINN!" she continues on, swinging her once perfectly coiffed, pinned back blonde locks to the back of her head, messily falling against her shoulders. Even while intoxicated, out of control and a need to climb onto the counter she now deems as Pride Rock, she still looks as miserably beautiful as ever.

"YOU TWO ARE SCAR'S MINIONS, AREN'T YOU?" she snaps, eyes firing up with annoyance, as if she truly _is_ a lion and not a poor, broken hearted girl taking out her pain in the form of role playing a Disney character.

* * *

><p><em>Shot number five<em>

"Is she-"

"_No_," snaps Santana. "I refuse to believe she's that insane,"

"ROAR!" gripping the handles of Artie Abrams' wheelchair, she pushes him around the kitchen, literally roaring at anyone who stood in her way. The drunks merely laughed her shenanigans off, so far as even roaring back, whereas the more sober party guests simply crinkled their eyebrows in disgust. Quinn Fabray truly had fallen. Fallen hard, they had to add.

* * *

><p>Months of Quinn Fabray rehabilitation, and here Mike Chang is, tossing the birthday girl's drunken form into the backseat of his car. Three months in Shanghai prepared him to return to the small town of Lima, located right in the not-so interesting state known as Ohio, and not fall for the same traps that made him fall for her all those years ago. Three months of never once uttering her name and repeating vicious, backhanded insults towards her in his mind to fuel some form of rage were supposed to stop him from doing just this. From saving Quinn, even when she would much rather be saved by Finn Hudson or whomever else could boost her social standing.<p>

Mike Chang tore himself out of the only town he ever truly knew, out of his comfort zone, relinquished his dreams all so he can escape her. All those days of numbing his emotions, his affections towards her, all to be thrown away by one very drunk, very bittersweet female almost hurling an entire empty tequila shot right at his face before falling right into his arms.

All of it went to waste the second his eyes fell on her. The way she descended down the stairs, a shining goddess in ivory, her silky blonde hair straightened and falling gracefully down her back, is enough to make him realize that he could have been gone for centuries, and the sight alone would have brought him right back to where he started; picking up the pieces of Quinn Fabray and putting her back together.

The only difference, Mike notes, as he slides into the driver's seat of his father's car, is that this time, he's the reason she's even in pieces to begin with. Or so he likes to think. Maybe then, he can kid himself into believing she ever felt something that resembled _true_ love or affection towards him. Just maybe.

"Mikeee," slurs the blonde lazily from the backseat of his car, her perky, pale face resting on the shoulder of the driver's seat.

"Buckle up," he answers firmly.

"Mikeee," she repeats. Glancing up at his rearview mirrors, he sees that signature, childish pout she would pull on any half-brained boy she needed to do her bidding for her. He turns away rapidly, pressing rather harshly on the gas pedal and making his way out of Lima Heights Adjacent, eyes transfixed on the road before him. He ignores Quinn's incoherent words, trying his best to focus on driving. Or rather, keep his focus off of her, but to no avail.

"Why are you ignoring me?" inquires Quinn, voice tiny and crestfallen, as if the idea of Mike not wanting anything to do with her was so difficult to comprehend and accept.

"I'm not ignoring you," the dancing Asian answers curtly.

"Then talk to me," the blonde demands, her tangled locks flipping ever so slightly as she moves her head back onto the leather seats, crossing her arms defiantly.

Purposely ignoring Quinn's request, he turns the wheel slightly to the right, making his way onto the highway. He misses the vast, empty surroundings of Lima, Ohio. As tedious as it may be, there's something about the lack of commotion that makes him feel alive, makes him feel iridescent, as if his secret love for dance and for life can outshine a city such as this. Of course, that's before he exchanged his dancing shoes for leather loafers and a tie. Before he sold his soul to family expectations. Before he lost his heart not just to Quinn, but to the reality that neither his father nor the rest of the world would love him, if he doesn't abide to his wishes.

Perhaps that's where he and the drunken beauty in the backseat of his vehicle went wrong. Quinn Fabray has her flaws; immense narcissism and fear of becoming an outcast, just to name a few, but she knows her place. She knows that it's her job to be beautiful and cold and remain at the top of the food chain. She knows that it's her responsibility to uphold the now tainted Fabray name. She knows what it is she has to do, and if it means happiness could never be a viable option, so be it.

Up to now, he still hasn't come to terms with what faith and life has in store for him. He still cringes at the idea of becoming like his father; soulless, cold and ignorant. He still feels himself becoming victim to heartbreak when he saw Quinn descend the stairs with Finn, as if he didn't already expect Quinn to resort back to her old ways. He still hopes for the best, yet never expect the worst. He still, after the repetitive occurrences in his life, come to terms that this is who he is. That he is meant to be the submissive, soulless, intelligent man his father is. That he is meant to simply love others yet remain unloved. That is what he's meant for. And in the same way, that is the very thing he still cannot accept. No matter how much life and love has pushed him to.

"You shouldn't have left me," she snaps angrily. Snapping out of his dazed stupor, he makes a turn towards Quinn's neighborhood. Large homes of the privileged, WASP-like few invaded his vision. It's a far cry from the typical, medium sized homes which Mike has become privy to over the years.

"You're drunk,"

"I'm not _that_ drunk," she slurs, unconsciously disproving her point. Nodding absently and calmly, he steers through the streets, the same way he has weeks prior to his departure to Shanghai. Only this time, instead of contemplating ringing on the doorbell of the Fabray household, he's dropping off the very Fabray he has been dying to see for all that time.

"Mikeee,"

"Quinn, we're here," unbuckling his seat belt, he tones out the blonde's protests and makes his way towards the backseat of his car.

"Come, let's go,"

"_No_," snaps Quinn.

"Q-"

"I'm not going anywhere,"

"Stop being ridiculous," leaning forward to grasp her arm, Quinn doesn't hesitate to slap it away, ungracefully stepping out of Mike's car herself. There's something in her eyes that startles him. There's anger, but more importantly, there's pain. As if his very presence caused her never ending pain.

"_I'm ridiculous?_" her hands plant themselves against his chest, pushing him back furiously.

"Quinn-"

"_Where were you?_" the ex-cheer leader yells furiously, her voice echoing down the silent street.

"I _needed_ you," Quinn continues on, walking over and pushing him even harder, causing his lanky yet toned body to stumble back.

"Let me carry you in," responds the dark haired boy calmly, refusing to respond to Quinn's inquiries. The only thing worse than knowing his heart and mind hasn't let go of her is letting her know that. The power she had over him since that day in kindergarten has broken him down to his very core. And what's worse is that she took advantage of her power, of his pure love for her, as if it didn't mean anything. As if _he_ didn't mean anything. She didn't deserve to know she still had the power to affect him like she is right now.

"Don't touch me," despite her words, the blonde still pushes him back even more with her hands.

"Stop it,"

"_No_,"

"Grow up, Quinn!" Mike yells furiously, grabbing hold of her arms, which fought to reach for his chest and push him further and further away. Didn't Quinn know she already pushed him onto the verge of an emotional breakdown multiple times in the past?

"It's not about you," he says slowly, emphasizing every syllable. "It's not about what _you_ need, about what _you_ want or about how _you_ feel. Here's something no one has ever told you, something I should have told you long ago. Not everything is about you," seethes Mike angrily. He tightens his grip on her wrists, eyes filled with so much fury, Quinn stumbles back a bit. Everything he's never had the courage to say, he's saying now. Here Quinn goes again, proving his point. Even when he has embedded apathy into his everyday lifestyle, a few words from her is all it takes to throw him back into the emotional rollercoaster that is their relationship.

"I never said-" she begins to challenge him angrily, when he pushes her back against his car door roughly, holding her in his arms, attempting to gain back control. She can't turn this on him. He's the one who got his heart broken. He's the one who deserved to be treated right. Not her.

"STOP!" Mike snaps, frustrated.

"_Make. Me,_" she taunts in response. Grasping her wrist, he applies a bit more pressure than necessary, causing her to shift in discomfort. "You're hurting me," she slurs.

"Yeah, well you hurt me," he retorts. "Quinn," he calls her attention, staring hopelessly and angrily in her eyes. "Do you know what you did to me?" his voice cracks in frustration, and that's when Quinn truly sobers. Her face falls, the smug look disappearing into thin air. She finally sees him. She finally sees what she's resorted him to do simply to get her to understand.

"You broke me," he whispers, voice haunted by the multiple times Quinn has rejected him, and the one time she didn't, used him to her advantage.

"You took advantage of me. You knew, Quinn. You knew I was in love with you. You're beautiful and a bitch and a hateful person, but you're not an idiot. You knew I was in love with you and you knew I would have moved the stars around just so I could have a prayer of you and I ending up together," he runs his fingers through her hair, not out of affection, but simply because she needs to know that he did love her. That he was willing to put her above everything and everyone else. That it was always her, and now he's here, broken, because of her.

"And you used that. You used me. You had me right where you wanted me and when it was convenient, you had me. And when it wasn't, you would cast me aside. That's how it has been for _six years_, Quinn. Six years were spent of me following you around like a lost puppy, of letting you treat me like I was so unimportant to you, you would call me your _seasonal friend_," gulping, Mike turns away from her, unable to look into those eyes anymore.

"But I'm done," he announces. "I'm through with you, Quinn. I am so through with you. I deserve to be happy, too. I deserve to feel _loved_, too. After tonight, you're not a part of me anymore. You can't be anymore. There's so many more people in this world who can love me the way I loved you, who can make me feel the way I felt for you, and I deserve to feel like that. I deserve it more than you ever will and that's just the truth,"

The blonde remains silent, taking in the harsh words Mike had thrown at her. For awhile, she simply stares at the ground. After having said so much, Mike isn't surprised this is the only thing she can say; nothing.

"Then why are you here?" she asks timidly.

"What?"

"If you're done with me, if you '_loved_' me and do not love me anymore…" she gulps, undoubtedly refusing to let her emotions get the better of her. Classic Quinn. "Why are you here?"

"Because I am done with you. Because now that you're finally out of my life for good, I can work on myself again," he lies through gritted teeth. He doesn't mention the fact that, a mere two weeks upon Annabelle revealing Quinn's misfortune to him, he begged his father to purchase him a ticket back to Lima. He doesn't mention that the very reason he brought her home instead of letting her fall asleep on Santana's bed like they originally planned is because he couldn't handle leaving her like that. He doesn't mention that his heart, battered and exhausted, still belongs to her.

"No,"

"Yes, Quinn. Just deal with it now," he snaps harshly. She shakes her head slowly.

"No, you didn't come back here because you got over me," she scoffs. "You came here because you knew you never could," freezing right where he stands, she feels her slowly approaching him.

"Quinn-"

"You say I hurt you, you say I don't deserve you. And you're right, Mike" she slurs her words a bit, but he's able to comprehend her words perfectly. "I don't deserve to be loved by you," the blonde resolves. "But I _needed_ you, _lime_," he flinches. No. She didn't call him that. She wasn't going to reel him back in.

"Do you know what happened to me?" her voice cracks, tears swelling up in the corner of her eyes. No, he tells himself. No more of pitying Quinn Fabray. No more of falling for her pain and feeling the need to rescue her. No more acting like he loves her, because he doesn't. No. He doesn't love her. He doesn't _want_ to, anyways.

"To my family?"

"Of course I knew,"

"And you only came home now?" Quinn questions.

"I only found out two weeks ago," he mutters, turning to her. She doesn't concede.

"It took you two weeks-" she begins to rage angrily, cut off with Mike approaching her yet again, indignant.

"You're lucky I even came at all, damn it! You're lucky I even came home to you after everything-"

"So you did come home for me," the blonde says simply. Hovering close to him, she glares defiantly into his dark, humiliated eyes. Three months of filtering her out of his system, and she's deeper into him than she ever was before.

"You want to start pointing fingers at who hurt whom?" she whispers angrily. "You _knew_ what happened to me the night of the dance. You _knew_ what I did _for_ you. You _knew_ I would have stopped you from getting on that plane if I could have myself," scrunching his eyebrows together, he stares at her completely baffled. He almost forgot just how intoxicated she truly is. The details of that evening were undoubtedly blurred in her mind. They must be if, in her own twisted little mind, she actually believes she would have stopped him.

"Last time I checked, you were too busy playing Winter Wonderland King and Queen with Finn,"

"Are you an idiot?"

"I must be if I'm still having this conversation with you," grabbing hold of her wrist, he reminds himself of why he has come here to begin with. Take Quinn safely home, put her to bed and walk away, officially. No regrets, no turning back, no relapses; the one last thing he would do for the girl he shouldn't love.

"_No_!" yells Quinn defiantly. "I'm not going in there,"

"I'm not talking about this anymore,"

"Well then I'm staying here," she says adamantly. "I'm not leaving this spot," she stands firmly on the sidewalk overlooking her home, glaring at him defiantly. "Until you and I finish talking about this,"

"I've said all I needed to, Q" tugging on her wrist tighter, he doesn't hesitate to pick the girl's protesting floor up from the ground, placing her over his shoulder.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" screams Quinn, a fresh new pool of tears appearing on her face. He wouldn't give in. No. He brought her home to avoid whatever mischief she would get herself into had he not. Not to console her. He may have come back for her, but things changed the second he laid eyes on her, the second he realized that he's come home to nothing. Less than nothing.

Taking the tiny clutch purse Quinn carelessly had on her wrist, he opens it up, fishing for the keys. He's not quite sure if Mrs. Fabray is here or not, but judging by the lack of a vintage Mercedes on the driveway, he bets she isn't. Stepping into the Fabray household, he makes his way up the stairs, all the while flinching at the sound of Quinn crying into his chest, her fists hitting his back harshly.

"Mikeee," she whimpers angrily, trying to get back on her feet. Holding her close, he locates Quinn's bedroom. During their split second relationship, or whatever it was, Quinn never once let him come to her home. It's not until the reality of her father's situation came into light did he realize why that is. Dropping her forcefully yet gently down on her four poster bed, the dark haired boy quickly turns away. Just looking at her broke his heart.

"Don't act like I didn't fight for you," Quinn snaps through the mass of tears flowing down her eyes and her constricted voice.

"You didn't-" he mumbles.

"I sent you a letter right before you left!" scoffing, Mike shakes his head. He always knew Quinn could lie like there's no tomorrow, but to make up a letter just to get herself out of feeling bad? To make herself feel better about the hurt she has caused? That's a new one.

"A letter? Really? That's the best you can come up with?" he asks in disbelief.

"Yes, Mike! I sent you a letter! Don't act like you didn't read it. I told you I left Finn. I told you… I told you that I loved you, Mike. T-that I would fix things between us and you just… You just left me," she sobs silently. "You _left_ me and I know, I know you didn't owe me anything but I thought…" shutting his eyes, he tries and tone her out. He's done with her. He has to be.

"I just thought loving you would be enough," turning around, he stares at her in absolute defeat. How many more times will she try and exonerate herself from the faults she had committed? How many more times will she try and break him down until he gave himself back up to her? How many more lies can she weave just to save herself?

"You never wrote me a letter, Quinn. If you're going to lie to me, at least do it well," he whispers. It's too much emotion for one evening. It's too much of Quinn in one evening. Quite frankly, any aggravation has disappeared from his body. All the emotions Quinn threw his way begins to take its toll on him physically, mentally and most of all, emotionally.

"That's what you think of me?" asks the birthday girl in a deathly whisper, her hazel orbs lacking of tears and now illuminating with understanding. "You think I'm a liar? A terrible person? Unlovable?" he doesn't respond, but he knows he doesn't have to. "Then okay," Quinn concedes, turning away. "If that's who I am to you, if that's who you believe me to be…" she trails off. "Then maybe you should just leave me for good," laying her head down on the soft pillow, the dark eyed boy nods.

"Happy birthday, Quinn,"

He exits her bedroom, her home and eventually, her life.

There's more to life than Quinn Fabray, he would tell himself over and over again.

Someday, he's sure he'll believe it to be true.

**Author's Note:** Yes, I know this update took forever and ever, but the semester just ended so I had a lot do. But now that a new one is starting, I should have more time to update this fic :) Fabang broke my heart in this one, especially at the end. If Mike had just gotten that letter, it wouldn't be so bad. But I personally think their issues have always been there anyways. Quinn's _pride_ and Mike's _prejudice_. At this point, I'm anticipating a couple more chapters before it ends. But we'll see as we get closer to the end.

**Review!**


	15. We Found Friendship In A Hopeless Place

_We Found Friendship In A Hopeless Place_

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><p>Noah "Puck" Puckerman is a possessive man, despite his bohemian, ambivalent and artistic lifestyle. He believes in property, in ownership and in entitlement. Growing up, Puck quickly learned that life didn't deal him generous hands in the long running, competitive game of poker. From their family living pay cheque to pay cheque and taking a second mortgage simply to afford their run of the mill home, Puck is completely aware that his lifestyle is a far cry from the Fabray's and Pierce's of the world. Unlike Quinn or Brittany, who could pull luxurious, decadent jewelry or cash right out of their pockets without straining themselves, Puck could barely afford pockets.<p>

Thus, whatever single thing life threw his way, allowed him to have without working too hard or having to be part of the upper crust to receive, he hangs onto for dear life. That's why every single abusive, douchebag suitor of his mom's are sent running for the hills after he meets them. That's why Puck insists Sara hold off on make up and skirts and everything else that could attract horny, idiotic boys. That's why, despite the overwhelming, burning guilt at the pit of his stomach, the Mohawk boy cannot find it in him to simply tell Mike Chang about the letter.

He should have pitied Quinn. Coming from a broken family that holds zero to no respect in the Lima community for having a deadbeat father run off with a bottle of Jack Daniels, he should understand the humiliation and hurt the blonde was enduring. He should have seen the genuine regret in her eyes. He should have empathized on the palpable fear she exuded, the reality of losing Mike being the obvious cause. He should have been able to relate to it all, having felt the exact same things at one point in his life.

Yet no matter how much he's currently pushing himself to find the will to simply tell Mike, to see and comprehend everything little miss perfect had to survive, he simply can't. He'll lose Mike. He knows he will. And that, for a boy who has never and currently doesn't have much to lose, scares him shitless. His best friend may have several good qualities; his devotion, his genuine love-but what he doesn't have is the ability to see past his prejudices. To see past immoral actions. And withholding a letter that could have possibly resolved things with Quinn Fabray, that's the epitome of immoral.

"Puck," snapping out of his stupor, the Jewish teenager turns away from his sandwich, capturing Mike Chang's expectant gaze. The two sit in the center of the school's nervous system, better yet known as the cafeteria. While Puck would typically be with the rest of the newly formed crew consisting of the losers and a few of the Cheerios and jocks, he decides to keep Mike all to himself. At least for his first day back to McKinley.

"Hm?" asks Puck.

"You okay?" nodding dismissively, the muscular Football player coughs inwardly.

"Where were you on Saturday, anyways?" he asks curiously, changing the subject before his brooding demeanor could be further speculated upon.

"That's the day I got back," answers Mike.

"I meant Saturday night. You were at my party, right?" technically, it was Quinn Fabray's seventeenth birthday party, but he and Santana were the ones who spent hours subtly getting kegs past her abuela. It was just as much his party as it was Santana's or Quinn's.

"Yeah, for a bit,"

"Right, you came late… And left early? Why?" he asks curiously. Between freshman Cheerios, beer pong and the cinnamon challenge, the last thing on his mind was where Mike had drifted off to. All he knew was that, at some point, he left.

"I just… Wasn't feeling it," as if on cue, the Asian boy's gaze flickers from his food to a silent, slightly hunched figure silently making her way to the back of the cafeteria. Turning around, he watches, a pang of resentment and guilt hitting him hard, as Quinn swerves away from her friends and towards a separate table, which is conveniently right behind them. She places her diet Coke and chocolate cookie primly on the table before flipping her book open, this time Wuthering Heights, and getting ready to spend the next forty five minutes consumed with words and her obvious grief.

"Quinn," mumbles Puck, casting his gaze away from the blonde and back towards Mike. Something about the look in his friend's eyes made him aware that there's more to the look that meets the eyes.

"What happened?" he asks seriously.

"Nothing happ-" begins Mike. Raising his hand, Puck stops him.

"Mike, _what_ happened with Quinn?" it's probably one of the Jewish boy's pet peeves. He believes in straight answers, honesty and blunt statements. None of the fancy analogies and metaphors both Quinn and Mike are known for. They're all just ways to avoid actually saying what's on their mind, or complicating it further. Considering how complicated the two are already, what's the point in further complicating it?

"We talked,"

"About?"

"Everything," sitting up slightly, Puck tries to hide the flash of worry on his face. Everything? Including the letter? The letter he didn't give to Mike because he was too selfish and too scared and too angry with Quinn for breaking him down? That letter?

"Everything?" he squirms uncomfortably.

"You know," Mike begins. "I didn't expect much coming home. I didn't expect her to miss me or anything like that," the dark haired boy sighs. "But I did expect the truth. She owed me that much," he scoffs quietly to himself. "And I never got it. She just lied and lied over and over again to keep her stupid pride intact,"

"What did she lie about?" asks Puck hesitantly.

"A letter," now, Puck always resented Mike's soft spoken tone and low volume. But in this moment, with Quinn just feet behind him, he wishes so desperately Mike didn't say that with complete volume and firmness. Trying to hide the distress on his face, he takes a quick glance over at the blonde. Her head is still buried in her book, she looks sedate enough and there are no signs she heard. Good.

"A letter?" he feigns curiosity.

"Apparently she sent it to me," he elaborates. "Talking about how she was sorry and wanted to be with me. Bullshit," Puck chuckles along, until eventually, his laughter echoes through the cafeteria.

"Bullshit," he agrees. "Just a lot of bullshit," the guilt is taking over, he knows. Maybe before, with Mike thousands of miles away, it was easy to cope with. But to have to look right into his best friend's eyes, the best friend who offered to share his father, the best friend who would take the fall for whenever he would get in trouble, the best friend whose mother would pack him an extra lunch whenever his mom would leave work early, it's the hardest thing he's ever had to do.

"I think I'd know if she sent me a letter," Mike continues on.

"Right," agrees Puck solemnly. His dark eyes follow Quinn as she thoughtlessly stands up from her seat, now opened can of coke against her lips as her fingers hooked between her book and walks out.

She knows. He can feel it. She knows. She wouldn't have just gotten up for the hell of it, right? But more importantly, how couldn't she know by now? There are only so many possibilities she could explore before eventually realizing he's the culprit.

She'll tell Mike. And he'll believe her. Just like that, no questions asked. He may not trust her at the moment, but Puck's not ignorant enough to believe a few more tears and a few more pleas from Quinn are all it would take to get him to believe her.

And Mike Chang, his best friend, his one thing, will hate him. He would lose him to Quinn Fabray. The one thing Puck feared more than anything else; losing someone.

But if he just speaks up now, if he just fixes this now, maybe he could prevent Mike's inevitable hatred. Maybe he would find it in his heart to understand that he's the only thing Puck's every truly had for himself. Maybe he'd understand that, watching from the sidelines, he had to do it. He had to save him from further heartache. Maybe he would see it from his point of view, understand that this is the way he functions and the way he loves, and it all came from a place of love. Maybe he could fix this.

But he nods along with Mike's begrudging, pained rants and chimes in with a crude comment here and there. Noah "Puck" Puckerman is a possessive man. And if he could, for just a little bit longer, keep his best friend, he would do just that.

* * *

><p>Sitting mindlessly on the hill of the local, Lima park, Quinn Fabray lets the fresh breeze of springtime brush against her skin. There's something about spring that would typically make Quinn smile a bit wider, or in this year's case, feel just a bit more sedated. Perhaps its because winter, the dreaded season, was spent nursing her broken heart and helping her family back on their feet. At least now, the flowers are beginning to bloom, the air thinner and the scent of freshly mown grass every morning.<p>

And it's one season closer to the summer.

Summer. Camp Rochester-Fields. Lemon and Lime. The scent of lavender and the sun. Annabelle and Dylan. Nights spent star gazing. Running around camp without a care in the world. Lima is a non-existent, alternate universe which they never spoke of. Summer is the one season of the year when love exists in her life. Love which doesn't just directly root from Mike, but from her surroundings. During the summer, Quinn felt loved. By Mike. By Annabelle and Dylan. By her fellow campers. By her counselors. By her surroundings. For someone like her, who thrived on acceptance but needed love, it was the one time she truly lived.

But those summers are far gone. Returning to camp isn't an option, Annabelle and Dylan are finally spending their hard earned savings on a cheap trip through Europe and the one person who made summer truly _summer_ believes her to be a sociopath not worth loving or believing. Everything Quinn has known summer to be; a season of love, two months of having Mike all to herself and just being free is gone forever. Now all she has to look forward to are soulless, sunny days and a sun kissed tan.

It's better than nothing at all.

"Ahem," the comfortable silence is broken by the warily approaching figure of one Noah Puckerman. Moving her gaze away from the group of short, middle school boys kicking a ratty old soccer ball around, she moves them towards him before looking back down to her watch. A whole fifteen minutes late. "Sorry I'm late," adds Puck, noting her eyes moving from him to her sister's old watch.

The beautiful blonde had overheard Puck and Mike's brief conversation in the cafeteria, and surprisingly enough, instead of piping in her two cents in the middle of their conversation, she just walked away. The exact opposite of what HBIC, take no prisoners Quinn Fabray would have done. But she's gone now, that girl whose tongue was as sharp as her heart, and though Quinn so wishes she could regain that fighting spirit back, the reality of the hurt she caused made it impossible to attain. Maybe for the better.

"It's alright," Quinn gestures to the free space beside her. Puck nods briefly, taking one last look at her before slowly taking a seat beside her. She turns to look at him, into those dark eyes and rugged face. For years, they have never gotten along. Even as children, they would spends hours upon hours criticizing the other, pulling meaningless pranks and trying so desperately to break the other. They are opposites in every single department; cats and dogs, apples and oranges, a Fabray and a Puckerman. And for that reason alone, they loathed each other.

"I was surprised you called me," he admits, looking away from her.

"I was surprised you picked up," she replies smoothly, turning back to the sight of soccer playing children running around the field. They sit in comfortable silence for the most part, watching their surroundings; kids playing, joggers jogging, people strolling down the path. Typical park sights. It's easier than getting right into it. Inhaling softly, Quinn decides to take the first plunge.

"You've never approved of me," keeping her eyes transfixed on the children, she continues to speak. "Even when we were just like them," she points towards the short, joyous children running around aimlessly. "You've never approved of me,"

"You weren't exactly cheering for me at every Football game either, Fabray" replies Puck curtly.

"I really wasn't," she agrees. Every opportunity Quinn could find to sabotage him in the eyes of their friends, she did. Be it her tiny comments of disapproval whenever he and Finn would get into mischief or mocking Santana for falling right back into his arms, for the sake of having a big, gay beard. Every words concerning Puck has always been negative. No wonder he never approved of her.

"Makes sense, I guess," Puck continues on. "I wasn't exactly someone you would want to cheer for,"

"Because you're an idiotic, womanizing cad hell bent on-" immediately, the Jewish boy gives her a pointed look. There is goes, the classic Quinn Fabray bitchiness, ruining any semblance of a civil conversation she's trying to have. Shutting her lip, she nods in acknowledgment. He has a point.

"Sorry," she's quick to apologize.

"It's okay, I was about to call you a cunt, anyways" he reveals crudely, resting his back against the freshly mowed grass. Nodding dismissively, she doesn't try to mask the hint of annoyance flashing on her face.

"Sorry," this time it's Puck who apologizes.

"For calling me a _cunt_," the word sounds bitter in her mouth, "Or because you didn't give Mike my letter," and there it is, the pink elephant in the park, the one, unspoken thing. She should have figured that's why Mike seemed to be so unaware of her letter. Mike's a lot of things, but not a liar. No, he's too big on morality to ever lie to anyone. The only possible explanation is the medium of exchange. Just hearing the way Puck's typically cocky tone of voice crack in the middle of a conversation with Mike was enough to convince her that he's the one to blame.

"Fabr-" Puck begins, the unwilling remorse palpable in his tone. Holding her hand up, she stops him.

"Did you do it?"

"I'm sor-"

"_Did you do it?_" she demands, her voice firm. Slowly nodding, he confirms her suspicions. Keeping his gaze down on his pants, he swallows a lump in his throat. "I did,"

"Are you sorry?" she mumbles quietly.

"I am," the response is immediate and nervous, yet far from sincere. Taking one good look into the Football player's eyes, she scoffs. Not angrily, but in disbelief.

"You're not sorry, Puckerman" sighing, Quinn turns her body around to face him. Crossing her thin legs over one another, she takes a good look at him. There's guilt in his eyes, there's worry, but he's vacant of remorse. And for that alone, Quinn wishes so desperately to hate him. How could he not be sorry? How could he have not seen the sincere look in her eyes the night of Mike's departure and see past their petty drama? How could he do that to her, to Mike and to them, and not even feel remorse? She asks herself these questions, questions which are supposed to provoke anger and an indignant response, but instead, she understands.

"And I understand why you're not sorry," its these words that make the Mohawk boy sit himself back up again, eyes wide in complete and utter surprise.

"I have hurt so many people," she whispers pensively. "Mike, Finn, Rachel…" each person came to mind, and each fault, and instead of Puck being the one to be sorry, it's her.

"And you watched me hurt every single person _you_ cared about, isn't that right?" she doesn't wait for his response. Considering everything, he owes her at least the opportunity to get her anguish out.

"You watched as I toyed with Finn and broke Mike's heart and you couldn't stand for it one more second. What you did, Puckerman, it was self serving and thoughtless and _cruel_," she looks right into his eyes, shaking her head. "And exactly what I would have done," Quinn concludes.

"And for that very reason, I can't hate you. Because if I saw _you_ hurting the people that I love, like Santana or Brittany or," she laughs a little bit. "Even _Rachel_, I would have taken the letter and burned it," it's sick, how instead of loathing him, she finds herself identifying with him more than she ever has in her life.

"I'm not saying I suddenly forgive you for not giving Mike the letter," Quinn's quick to add. "But I understand why you did it. But more importantly, I understand _you_," she scoffs a little bit. When did holier-than-thou, snobby Quinn Fabray ever speak kindly towards Noah Puckerman?

"I understand that you were just trying to protect Mike. You saw that I did to him. You saw me lure him in, even while I was with Finn. You saw him hurting, not just this year, but all the years prior to this. You saw me reject him time and time again, and at some point, you decided to push me out of his life," it's only now that she realizes soft tears have begun to cascade down her hazel orbs. Choking them back, the blonde is quick to wipe them away. Just reflecting on the past, on all the reasons Mike has to tear her out of his life completely, made her realize that, letter aside, she deserved to be put in her place.

"You were just trying to protect him, is all," Quinn chokes out, voice shaky. "And that, despite the actions you took to achieve it, is honorable, Puckerman," it's the first time she's ever admired Puck, in the most bizarre way, of course.

All her life, she deemed Puck to be a selfish asshole, always looking out for number one. Much like her, in a sense. But this, taking her letter, despite how immoral it may be, is the one selfless act he's ever done. By taking her letter, he prevented Mike from staying in Lima and getting his heart broken by her all over again. Because, let's face it, it's in Quinn Fabray's nature to break Mike Chang. And he'll try to run again, reclaim his freedom, until she pulls him back in. The cycle would never end. But he put a pause to the vicious cycle, and even if it meant Quinn's heart got broken along the way, so be it. He did what Quinn never could; think of Mike's best interests. Even if it meant he would get burned along the way.

"You're a bit screwed up in the head," strangely enough, there's a twinge of affection and admiration in his tone that catches her off guard.

"And you are, too. You and I, we're cut from the same deck. We love whole heartedly yet fearfully. We have strange interpretations of _how_ to love someone. We fight and fight for someone yet the idea of keeping them scares the living hell out of us," it's all becoming clear to her now, just how similar they are. And how maybe, if she could see past the cheap clothes and the womanizing tendencies, they could actually be _friends._

"I still don't like you," _Or not_, Quinn thinks. Chuckling awkwardly, she shifts her legs slightly.

"Don't worry, I don't like you all that much either" responds the blonde.

"I guess… I don't know. All I've ever seen or heard from Mike was, 'I love Quinn Fabray'. And yeah, at first, I was all for it. I mean, it was better than watching him just stare at you, you know? But then you got back together with Finn. That's when I knew I had to do something. And when I heard Mike was leaving for China, I guess I got a bit scared," it's the most emotion, aside from anger and desire, she's heard from Puck. It's incredibly refreshing to hear.

"There he was, finally about to move on, and before I knew it, you assaulted me with your letter," she snorts a bit. Assault? Maybe Puck did spend too much time on his X Box than in some decent, reading material that isn't Playboy or FHM.

"I guess I just wanted to give him a chance to get over you," Puck's arm stretches out until eventually, it's resting on her bare shoulder. "He hasn't," Immediately, her eyes widen. Where's the insensitive jerk she's come to hate? Where's immature, self serving, Puck? Is it possible that maybe, all these internal changes aren't due to factors in life, but just growing up? Is that what Quinn was doing? Is that why she no longer had the same lust for popularity and acceptance? Not because she couldn't have it or because there were many other things to consume her energy, but because she was growing up?

Maybe her sudden change is a good thing. Maybe it's good that Quinn truly puts her energy into reading instead of putting others down. Maybe it's good that, despite isolating herself, she's come closer to true friendship with people outside of her immediate circle like Rachel or Finn. Maybe being rejected by Mike and her father's drug addiction coming to light is exactly what she needed. It hurt like a bitch, there's no denying that. But maybe getting hurt is the only way to getting better.

"Puckerman-"

"Quinn," for the first time in years, he calls her Quinn. Not to push her buttons, but to level with her.

"I may have never approved of you. I may have drawn shitty pictures of you in the boys' room getting eaten by a badger," _He does realize badgers don't eat humans, right?_ She thinks briefly, but urges him to carry on. "I may have even imagined fucking you senseless in the shower room," covering her ears, she cringes at the thought.

"I've thought a lot of things about you. But the one thing I always knew from the start? The one thing I hated the most? Is that you, lady, are the only girl for my man, Chang," he smiles at her. Not the usual mocking grin he's known for, but a genuine smile. He takes hold of her hands and brings them down from her ears.

"I knew I'd lose Mike to you someday. It was only a matter of time. No matter how much I was trying to protect him, I was trying to protect our bromance even more," it takes all of Quinn's concentration to focus on his meaning and not the method in which he was saying it.

"He's my _best friend_," says Puck, a twinge of sadness in his voice. "I didn't want to lose my best friend. He's all I've got,"

"You don't think that's how it is for me, too? He's it for me, Puck. He's my one perfect thing,"

"And I ruined it?" asks Puck.

"No, you didn't," Quinn sighs, touching his shoulder. "Because letter or not, who's to say Mike wouldn't have left?"

"No one," Puck answers the rhetorical question, much to her amusement.

"Exactly,"

And so they fall right back into an awkward silence, their eyes moving from the trees to the grass, until eventually, Puck caves.

"So what's the plan?" he asks abruptly.

"Plan?"

"You and Mike, what's the plan? You gonna tell him I took the letter?" instead, Quinn shakes her head.

"No, I won't,"

"Why not?' asks Puck, baffled.

"_Because_…" Quinn trails off. "What will it change?"

"Everything?" he tries.

"Or nothing," she retorts.

"So you're just giving up?" the immediate anger in Puck's voice is palpable, causing her to lean back a bit.

"I'm not-"

"_Yes, you are!"_ Puck yells passionately, grabbing many of the park goers' attention. "This, right here, is giving up"

"He doesn't want me-" she tries to reason with him.

"Damn it, Quinn! Are you that blonde? He left Lima for you. He stayed in China for you. He came back for you. It's all for you. And you're seriously going to fuck up again by not even fighting for him?" grabbing hold of her shoulders, he uses his strength to get her to stand up. His eyes look straight into hers, the fire flashing from them.

"I get it, you're all nice and selfless now, but don't lie and say you don't want him back,"

"It's not that simple, Puck" reasons Quinn soothingly.

"It is that simple. Say it, Quinn. Say _it_!"

"Puck-"

"Fabray, I've said it once, I'll say it again; I don't like you. You're kind of a huge ass bitch with a tiny ass," he gestures to her bottom. "And if it were me, I'd have Mike love anyone but you, but the bottom line is that it's you. It has and will always be you, the same way it has and will always be him for you. And this is it, Fabray. Your one last chance to get him back before you really lose him for good. Are you really going to let that happen?"

Shaking her head softly, she mutters a 'no'.

"What?"

"No, I don't want it to happen," she says a bit louder, Puck's persistence getting under her skin.

"And so what are you going to do about it?" he pries, shaking her up a bit.

"I'm going to fight for him!" and there it is, the Quinn Fabray spirit. The 'fight' in her. The girl who fought her way to the top of the social pyramid, the girl who fought tooth and nail to be head cheerleader, the girl who would fight until the very end to get him back. And just like that, she's back.

"There you go!" exclaims Puck happily, grinning ear-to-ear.

"I have to go," Quinn says immediately, grabbing hold of her purse. Reaching into his back pocket, Puck holds out the infamous letter to Quinn's gaze, handing it to her. As she walks past him quickly, he laughs a bit to himself. Years of watching Mike love her from afar, months of watching his heart get broken and now, finally, he can see things falling into place.

"Fabray!" he calls out to her. She turns around quickly.

"If I'm not the best man at your wedding, I'll tell everyone you and Chang fucked on this very hill," Quinn's cheeks turn an unflattering shade of crimson before she runs off. Smiling to himself, Puck sits back down.

For the first time in his life, he _may_ just approve of Quinn Fabray.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> It's heavy on the Quick interaction, I know, but it was needed. Finally, we get a look right into Puck's head and see why he did the things he did. It doesn't completely validate his actions, but it gives us a better understanding of where his mind is at. Not to mention, it's a turning point for them. Two people who always hated each other are suddenly supporting one another.

Next chapter, we have romantic!Fabang. Sadly, I think that, in order to not keep this story dragging on, **we are slowly reaching the end**. I'm thinking approximately three more chapters, including the epilogue. Keep an eye out because from this chapter up to the epilogue, there will be hints of foreshadowing to show what exactly the epilogue will entail.

But, if anyone has any suggestions or things they would like to see, friendships they would like to see come to a close or to a start, leave a **review** and I can see if I can incorporate it.


	16. The Story Of Us Goes Back To December

_The Story Of Us Goes Back To December_

**(Two Months Later)**

"Maybe you can wait until it rains and then kiss him, all _The Notebook_ like," suggests Rachel Berry, her high pitch voice ringing through the four walls of the Fabray estate, turning over to the lush couches where Noah Puckerman, Santana Lopez, Brittany Pierce, Finn Hudson and Quinn Fabray sat, watching the tiny Jew dubiously.

"It's _June_, hobbit, the only thing that's going to rain any time soon is tanning lotion and summer slushies," hisses the current head cheerleader, Santana, vehemently. Reluctantly unwrapping Brittany's pale arms from her body, she makes her way over to Rachel, taking hold of the thick, green Sharpie she is currently grasping onto for dear life.

"I'm on brainstorm scribe duty!" protests Rachel, leering for the Sharpie. Smirking, the Latina holds it between her thumb and pointing finger and holds it up, taking advantage of the significant height difference between herself and the desperate, dark-haired girl.

"Santana, Rachel's on scribble duty," Finn Hudson says calmly, easily taking hold of the Sharpie and handing it back to his girlfriend. Scowling, Santana scrunches her eyebrows together.

"Frankenteen-" she begins, an edge to her voice, before Rachel interrupts.

"It's scribe," corrects Rachel silently, lightly grasping his arm comfortingly. "And thank you," she continues on affectionately, eyes twinkling with unmistakable happiness and adoration.

"Get a room," grabbing the Sharpie from Rachel yet again, Santana turns back to the large pad of chart paper resting in the center of the Fabray's living room. "Don't make me go all Lima Heights on you," these words are what get both Finn and Rachel to hurriedly return to their spots.

"Sex sells," states Santana, words precise and sure, no doubt channeling Sue Sylvester. Tapping the Sharpie against the corner of the chart paper, she continues.

"_Clearly_, the solution here is for you to fuck the hell out of him," the other end of the Sharpie lands on Quinn Fabray, who's frustration and worry sketched face, forms into one of shock and outrage.

"San-"

"You could dress up like a lemon!" Brittany says excitedly, wrapping her arm around Quinn and rocking her happily. "This one time, Santana dressed up like a Skittle for me and we ended up putting Skittles on-"

"BRITT!" stopping almost immediately, both blondes look back towards Santana. "Not in front of Quinn. Miss virgin pure can't handle that,"

"Oh, Quinnie isn't a virgin," mocks Puck, grinning ear-to-ear, nudging her. Surprisingly enough, what began as mutual distaste and was resolved with civility turned in a friendship. A screwed up, on-again, off-again friendship, but a friendship none the less. Turns out, losing Mike, their best friend, led them to each other.

Desperation meets reaction.

"Puck!" snaps Quinn.

"No," says Santana slowly. "That's good. Q, how much experience do you have with heading downtown?" asks the Latina, eyes filled with a newly sparked hope. For months, the six of them have come together, coming up with ways in which the ever stubborn, ever judgmental and unforgiving Mike Chang would turn his innate characteristics away for the sake of love. For the sake of Quinn's love, to be more specific.

Since the day Puck revealed his wrong doings, things have taken a significant turn. Gone was unwilling, weak, powerless Quinn, the girl whose nose resided in novels instead of sniffing around for a possible solution for her problems. In her place is the perfect mix of prideful, inconsiderate, shallow, vain head cheerleader and the experiences which have led her to grow. Now, she's rid of the books and glued to a pen, those long messy locks are now cut to medium length, balanced perfection and set on what truly matters. Not becoming Winter Wonderland queen or wallowing in self pity, but getting things right.

Starting and ending with the boy who is hell bent on shutting her out of his life.

Despite all the wonderful things Quinn has come to both love and loathe about Mike, the single thing that she unwaveringly hates is his prejudice; his incapacity to see past not only her mistakes, but Puck's as well. The second Puck validated Quinn's ocular proof, thereby immaturely waving the letter in his face, he turned around and walked away. As if the Mohawk boy's intentions or proof of the blonde's innocence was irrelevant. As if the things they did was completely unforgivable. As if the pure love they both exuded at that moment didn't make a difference.

But it will make a difference now, it has to. Two months have passed. Two months of dealing with his cold shoulder, piles of unanswered, handwritten letters and rejection. Two months of Mike, who unconsciously admitted his return has everything to do with her that evening, hurting her over and over again. Two months of suffering, and Quinn is more determined than ever.

"You mean your place? Plenty. You get on the highway-" groaning, both Puck and Santana share a look of disapproval and turn away.

"She's hopeless," deadpans Puck.

"I'm not hopeless!" snaps Quinn.

"You're a little hopeless," mumbles Finn, glancing up at the blonde warily. "We've been at this for hours and all we've come up with is that you should reenact _The Textbook_ or give Mike a blow job,"

"The Notebook," Rachel pipes in.

"I am hopeless!" exclaims Quinn, jumping up from her seat, reaching the tipping point. No amount of plans and begging would get him to listen to her. Not after everything she's put him through. Not after he has moved on. Not after he has shoved her out of his life for good.

Worriedly moving back and forth, the blonde swallows a lump in her throat. She just needed to breathe. Yes, that's it. Breathing. She knows how to do that. She's been doing it all her life.

Inhale.

He would come around. He always did.

Exhale.

So what if he has ignored her existence for two months?

Inhale.

He left for Shanghai, stayed in Shanghai and returned to Lima for her. It was all for her, and therefore all he needs now is to be reminded of that.

Exhale.

But what if it isn't a good thing? What if him leaving and returning is just a symptom of the overall, sickening disease that is him loving someone unworthy of that love?

Inhale.

And soon, Quinn forgets to exhale. Being shaken out of her worried stupor by Puck, she slowly flutters her eyes open, she meets his dark eyes.

"We'll figure it out," he encourages firmly, rubbing her shoulder gently, the sincerity shining from his eyes. They stand in the middle of the immaculately decorated, populated living room, watched carefully yet encouragingly by the rest of their friends. Staring back at him worriedly, Quinn tries to regain a steady breathing rhythm to the best of her ability, relaxing under his comforting touch.

"Puck-"

"Do you ever notice the way Mike stares at you, Quinn?" he interrupts her. "Of course you don't, he only ever looks when you aren't," the Jewish boy answers his own question, chuckling in mild amusement. Losing his best friend and gaining Quinn Fabray as one certainly did a lot for his maturity. "He looks at you, and it's like you're… You're…" he trails off, at a loss for words.

"Like you're the moon and the stars," without meaning to, the former head cheerleader feels her heart race. The moon and the stars, the thing that kept her and Mike bound and connected through the distance and seasons. The things that immortalized her in his eyes, that made her special.

"He is so in love with you, Quinn. He wouldn't be this hell bent on getting you to fuck off if he wasn't," whispers Puck meaningfully, eyes illuminating with kindness. Very rarely did Quinn see this side of him, this protective, passionate side. Turns out, they have more in common than either one of them could imagine. Both long for love, hurt at the idea of imperfection yet strive to fulfill the role society made for them, all the while struggling with the pain that is being so connected to someone, all you can do is hurt them.

"But that doesn't mean that he'll forgive me," whimpers the blonde silently, crossing her arms over her waist. "I have hurt him to an almost unforgivable point-"

"Brittany and I fought our feelings for _years_, Quinn. _Years_ of gay beards and denial, and I've almost lost her a handful of times-"

"And she actually lost me every now and again, too" adds Brittany, affectionately grasping the Latina's hand and squeezing it firmly.

"But here we are now," concludes Santana.

"Yeah," Finn says, smiling reassuringly up at his ex-girlfriend before turning back to the grinning girl beside him. "Look at us," he gestures to the two of them.

"We've played a game of cat and mouse for centuries and now, finally, we're getting it right," Rachel says enthusiastically, grinning at the blonde, attempting to restore some confidence in her. "There's a strain, of course, and things to move past, but at the end of the day, we're all that matters. And as long as you can get Mike to see that you are the Holly Golightly to his Paul Varjak or the Allie to his Noah or, or…" the female Jew trails off, thinking of a third analogy.

"Or Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennett," finishes Puck, startling all five of his companions. "I had to go on Sparknotes to write my English paper, I didn't _actually_ read it," he clarifies. Looking back into the hazel eyes that are expectantly staring right into his face, he sighs.

"All you need to do, Q, is figure out _why_ he hates you. And not just the fact that you've fucked him up in the head, but the _real_ reason. Like Santana with the closet or Finn with being scared shitless. Find what it is that Mike hates the most about you-"

"My pride," whispers Quinn. It's her pride that played the key role in motivating her actions. It's her pride that ushered her up the social hierarchy and broke his heart time and time again. "I need to get rid of it. I need to show to him t-that my pride… My pride is _nothing_ compared to him. S-Something in public, yeah" she thinks out loud, releasing herself for Puck's grasp. Her pride. Of course. How did it not come to her sooner? She had to level the playing field. Yes. That's it! And he'd be hers. Oh damn, he would be hers and nothing else will matter. In theory, anyways.

"Run around naked?" suggests Puck.

"Get Slushied?" recommends Finn.

"Wear one of Berry's outfits?" says Santana, earning a reprimanding glance from her girlfriend, Frankenteen and the little, singing Jew.

"Swifting!" exclaims Brittany giddily, eyes sparkling with pride.

"Britt, swifting isn't a word,"

"No, San. Swifting! Go Swift on him!" she encourages, striding over to Quinn and shaking her body, as if she has just accomplished the cure for cancer.

"Britt, what…" Quinn trails off warily.

"Taylor Swift!" announces Brittany. Immediately, all of them stop dead in their tracks. "Sing to him! Pull some big, cute gesture like pulling bunnies out of hats!"

"Taylor Swift," repeats Finn dubiously.

"Taylor Swift," mutters Puck.

"Taylor Swift," says Quinn decidedly, turning to the rest of her entourage. If Mike wants her to put her pride on the line, if it's the one thing that will catch his attention, then so be it.

* * *

><p>"I think I just peed myself," watching the nervous wreck literally cradling herself in a fetus position, both Rachel Berry and Santana Lopez raise their eyebrows expectantly. Since when did <em>queen Quinn<em> ever feel the stomach lurching, psychologically induced trauma that is stage fright?

"I don't see anything," kids Brittany, lifting Quinn's long, firm legs up in the air, attempting to calm her down. In approximately one minute, the flimsy barrier between the New Directions plus Quinn Fabray and the rest of the student body would collapse, and she would have to do what she's never done in her life:

Relinquish her pride.

Okay, now she's sure she peed herself.

"For your sake, I truly do hope you do not suddenly pee yourself. Runs down your panty hoes aren't exactly the most cutting edge fashion statement you would like to make on your debut," comments Kurt Hummel striding over to the four girls, lips pursed and hands resting against his hip. It took quite a bit of negotiating and pleading on Quinn's part to get the very glee club she has tormented for years to agree to this. Or rather, two dinners at Breadsticks and a promise to join next year, to be exact.

"Hey!" snarls Rachel, sprinting towards the group, which has now gathered around Quinn. Eyes blazing with irritation, she ushers the blonde up. "I didn't spend that much time on straightening your hair just for you to wuss out," grabbing hold of Quinn's chin, Rachel brings the girl's hazel eyes down to level with hers.

"I do _not_ relinquish solos and sing back up for _anyone_. Especially not someone who, though granted has a very charming, sweet alto, doesn't know the first _thing _about performing. So pull yourself together, Quinn!"

"But I-"

"No wussing out," lightly slapping the blonde against the face, Rachel begrudgingly makes her way back towards her spot on stage.

"Don't mind her, she's just a _tad_ bit temperamental. What with it being the last performance of the school year," Kurt soothes the blonde's fears, rubbing her shoulder, his fingers getting mixed with the blonde, straight tendrils resting on them. For the glee club, the end-of-year performance is the final opportunity to spread awareness. To state to the popularity obsessed institution that they are more than just geeks or fags singing Barbra Streisand. And to suddenly have the queen of that very institution beg to take center stage as her one last attempt to get the man of her dreams? It was a difficult sell, to put it simply.

"I see that," mutters Quinn wryly. Taking one last look around her surroundings, she counts down to the seconds as everyone begins to scramble to their positions.

Forty five.

Forty four.

Forty three.

* * *

><p>"Sit," Finn Hudson ushers Mike Chang to a seat at the very first level of the bleachers. Raising his eyebrows expectantly at the tall jock, he fusses his eyebrows together. While he's used to Finn's antics, this one truly gets him this time. However, instead of arguing, he simply complies. No harm in doing so. Moving on over to make space for the quarterback, he's caught off guard when Finn simply retreats from him and towards the double doors, presumably making his way backstage. Awkwardly adjusting himself against the cold bleacher, he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.<p>

One week.

Just one more week until the summer. Until he's rid of the day-to-day, set activities and free to do as he pleases. More importantly, free of the baggage which McKinley carries along with it. Or really, just Quinn. Sighing to himself, he moves his gaze downwards.

Since he has arrived from Shanghai all those months ago, he has brainwashed himself to believe that his return has everything to do with missing Lima, and not Quinn. But as each day passes, with the mild temperature of Spring begins to heat up and the days become longer, he finds believing the very idea to be difficult.

Each day in Lima oozes of mediocrity. It's why Mike has always aspired to get out of the wretched town that bred blue collar workers and prejudiced mindsets. Though really, it's probably where he belongs, being prejudiced himself. But that's besides the point, really. The point being that Lima isn't the ideal place for anyone, especially him, and despite all effort to do so, he knows the real reason isn't because he missed the wretched down, but because of her.

Lima is just Lima without Quinn.

Summer is just summer without Quinn.

Mike Chang is just, well, Mike Chang without Quinn.

But with her, oh, now that's an entirely different story.

Lima is _home_ with Quinn.

Summer is a _fairytale_ with Quinn.

Mike Chang is _more than_ Mike Chang with Quinn.

Shaking his head profusely, he fights away the nostalgia. Fights away the facts. As true as the afore mentioned may be, when push comes to shove, only one fact matters: she hurt him. She drank him in and spit him out. She did the unforgivable, and therefore fell under the category of unforgivable people in his life, starting with her and ending with Noah Puckerman.

Who cares if Mike spends his afternoons dancing his pain away? Who cares if he's lonely? Who really cares? Not him. Definitely not him. He would much rather be by himself if it means he is able to protect his heart. It's not like associating himself with people like those would get him far, anyways. Manipulators like Quinn or liars like Puck couldn't be trusted, and could certainly not do him or his future any well.

And yet his dark eyes glaze around the gymnasium, attempting to find either one, but his search is interrupted by Mr. Figgins, clad in his everyday, dark brown suit, approaching the mic stand.

"Settle down, children" chuckling silently to himself, he anticipates the usual, end-of-year performance by the Glee Club which, interestingly enough, a number of the Cheerios and even Puck and Finn themselves, have joined. He tries to bite back the bitter envy lingering in his mind. What he would give to be part of something that didn't involve his future college applications. Oh well, one more year, and it'll be worth it. Or so his father said one night as he handed him pamphlets of every large, world-renowned university in the United States of America.

"As a end of year treat," he begins. "Mostly because they perform free of charge," Mr. Figgins mutters under his breathe, his thick accent ringing through the gym. "The New Directions!" he announces, clapping in order to signal the others to do so, particularly the jocks sitting at the top corner of the bleachers. Retreating, the curtains begin to swing, the lights dimming in correspondence.

There's someone approaching the mic. Someone tall and beautiful. Someone with illuminating blonde hair and penetrating Emerald orbs. Someone clad in a beige summer dress with a generous cleavage and an even more generous compliment to her skin. Someone who has been, and he begrudgingly admits, is the love of his life. Someone like Quinn Fabray. Scratching his eyes, he refocuses on the figure. Not someone _like_ Quinn Fabray.

_The_ Quinn Fabray.

"Hey," she begins. Her voice. It sounds like Quinn Fabray. Blinking rapidly, Mike shakes his head. It is Quinn Fabray. Since when did Quinn sing? Since when was she even part of the damn glee club?

Behind her, the rest of the glee club follows, carrying stools with them. Lining them up into a semi circle behind her, the flashing lights disappear, and single light lands on her. The lights are rather useless for him. He didn't need an entire spotlight to keep his attention her. She's had it since they were ten-years-old amid the heat and fun that the sunniest season has to offer.

"So," Quinn continues, voice tight and strained, gripping onto the microphone for dear life. "There's this guy," coughing inwardly, he keeps his eyes solely on her. "Not any guy… _The_ guy," he watches her silently, too bewildered by her actions to do much of anything else. The suspense is killing him.

"A-And he's judgmental and he never gives me a moment's rest. He's talented and he's," she pauses, surveying the crowd, and then she finds him. Right where Finn arranged for him to be. Right where she wants him to be. "He's the _best thing that's ever been mine_," the crowd watches, a hint of amusement but general interest apparent from them. Any other girl on stage, and every single Slushie would be heading towards her direction. But it's Quinn Fabray, and everyone knows that while her reigning days are over, she's still royalty. She's still the girl who can make them part like the red sea with a snap of her slender fingers.

"I blew it," she exasperates, smiling bitterly down at the ground. "I blew a lot of things… Not like a blowjob, I mean, uh…" The crowd roars of laughter, directing it right toward her. Gulping, he watches her cast her gaze over to Rachel and Puck, who sit side-by-side, nodding her encouragingly.

"I love him," and that silences the crowd. That silences _him_ and any coherent thoughts running through his mind. "And he doesn't hear me when I talk and he certainly doesn't read into me when I write and so, well, I'll be doing as the cliché, female leads do and I'll be singing to him, because that's the only thing I can do to make him listen,"

The lights begin to dim even more, and blue lights rest right above the rest of the glee club's bodies. From the corner of his eye, Mike spots his ex-best friend, Noah Puckerman, pick up his guitar from the corner of his stool, and Finn Hudson make his way over to the waiting drum set directly behind his friends. At the other end is Tina Cohen-Chang, who has emerged from her seat and made her way over to the cheap, vintage keyboard. Everyone moves to the melodies of each and every instrument, yet he doesn't. He can't move. He can't look away. He can't help but listen. Months of toning her out, of ignoring the fact that the letter could have changed everything and here he is, finally listening.

Those eyelashes, which run for miles, flutter open, and her gentle, beautiful alto is the only thing Mike can hear. It's the only thing he wants to hear.

_I'm so glad you made time to see me._

_How's life? Tell me how's your family._

_I haven't seen them in a while._

_You've been good, busier than ever,_

_We small talk, work and the weather,_

_Your guard is up and I know why._

She hurt him. She lost him. And here she is, a year later, fighting for him. Mike's entire body feels the urge to lung forward and take her, to avoid all rationale and all complete and total judgment that she isn't worth it.

_Oh, a simple complication_

_Miscommunications lead to fallout_

_So many things that I wish you knew_

_So many walls up, I can't break through_

Millions of women out there, he tells himself. Women who's pride isn't as big as their hair. Women who can love him the way he loves her. Women who would put it all on the line to have him. Those are the women he should be with.

_Now I'm standing alone in a crowded room_

_And we're not speaking_

_And I'm dying to know, is it killing you_

_Like it's killing me_

But he doesn't want a woman, he wants this woman woman; this girl. The one who stands before him, her façade dropped, her emotions spread out for all the world to see and the pride completely empty from her face. He sees the girl he's known her to be all along. Not the queen of McKinley with her over bearing, shallow personality. Not the girl who he personally had to carry up to her bedroom the night of her birthday, because she couldn't do it herself.

He sees summer Quinn, complete with her perfect hair and perfect eyes and perfect voice. He sees the girl who has captivated him for years, and will captivate him for more to come. He sees the girl who has broken him down, stolen his heart and lived to tell the tale. He sees the girl who, despite her pride, is standing before a crowd of people, eyes set on him and _only_ on him, and he knows.

_So this is me swallowing my pride,_

_Standing in front of you saying, "I'm sorry for that night,"_

_And I go back to December all the time._

_It turns out freedom ain't nothing but missing you._

_Wishing I'd realized what I had when you were mine._

_I'd go back to December, turn around and make it all right._

He loves her, it's the only thing he knows. It's the only relevant thing.

He knows that summers in Camp Rochester-Fields are irrelevant.

He knows that their night of intimacy atop a hill in the local park is irrelevant.

He knows that their argument, with the rain falling down their faces and mixing with their tears, is irrelevant.

He knows that the night of the Winter Wonderland dance, where faith and pride and prejudice complicated things forever, is irrelevant.

He knows the damn letter is irrelevant.

He knows the trip back to her home, the night of her party, is irrelevant.

He knows that two months of longing stares and bitter, curt, one-word answers are irrelevant.

He, Michael Chang Junior, is in love with Lucy "Quinn" Fabray. And the past and even the future is irrelevant, because he's in love with Quinn Fabray, and that is the only thing he knows at this moment. It's the only thing he wishes to know.

_I don't know what to say since a twist of fate_

_When it all broke down_

_And the story of us looks a lot like a tragedy now._

And yet…

Yet was everything completely irrelevant? Was the pain and the denial and their tendency to resort to their previous nature truly irrelevant?

_I miss your tanned skin, your sweet smile,_

_So good to me, so right_

_And how you held me in your arms that September night -_

_The first time you ever saw me cry._

_Maybe this is wishful thinking,_

_Probably mindless dreaming,_

_But if we loved again, I swear I'd love you right._

But so what if it wasn't irrelevant? Did it matter? Maybe it's how it has to be. Maybe they have to look at it all together, not just the negative or the positive, but the in-between. Maybe they should realize that they had love. Oh fuck, they _are _in love. But they should also realize that they've broken each other enough times to be considered illegal.

They've hurt each other as much as they have loved each other.

_The battle's in your hands now_

_But I would lay my armor down_

_If you'd say you'd rather love then fight_

And maybe, what they have both failed to recognize, him in particular, is that it's okay. It's okay that they have hurt each other. It's okay that they always will. It's okay that Mike is a prejudiced, self-righteous, superego driven man. It's okay that Quinn is a prideful, slightly insane woman. It's okay.

They're okay.

_So many things that you wish I knew_

_But the story of us might be ending soon._

_Now I'm standing alone in a crowded room_

_And we're not speaking_

_And I'm dying to know, is it killing you_

_Like it's killing me_

_It turns out freedom ain't nothing but missing you,_

_Wishing I'd realize what I had when you were mine._

_I'd go back to December, turn around and make it all right._

_I'd go back to December, turn around and change my own mind_

"Fuck it," he says to himself, unable to take the pile of emotion Quinn has instilled him. Fuck common sense and fuck the past. Fuck it all. Maybe he can even fuck her tonight. All he knows is that, for the life of him, she's all there is now. She's all he wants there to be. Him and her, together. Fixing it. He walks through the slippery floor of the gym, capturing everyone's attention.

Quiet, detached Mike Chang is walking up the stage, pushing that microphone which has captivated Quinn's lips for too long and takes them for himself. How could he blame her for picking Finn when he has never taken her for himself? When you want something, you take it. And now, finally, he's taking it. He's taking her.

Capturing her lips, Mike doesn't hesitate to grab hold of her entire body, passionately holding her up to him, practically carrying her, just to deepen the kiss. These lips. How he never lived without Quinn's lips on his for months, he'll never know.

She smells of lavender, and he's sure the hour he spent laying underneath the sun, cradled into a sweet slumber, makes him smell of sunlight.

He runs his fingers through her hair. Her lemon hair.

She tugs on his shirt in both surprise and passion. His lime colored shirt.

He fingers the sparkling, star shaped gem on her neck. She's his star.

She rubs her thumb around his nape, unknowingly creating a moon. He's her moon.

There's noise, Mike's somewhat aware. He could hear Puck cheering from the sidelines. He could hear her fellow Cheerios cheering them on. He could hear it all, yet he only truly listens to her. To the beat of her heart against his.

To the beat of the love song that has always been playing between the two of them.

They'll have it all.

Kisses in the moon light.

A tie to match her corsage at prom.

Awkward, first dates at Breadsticks.

Fights. Oh, they'll have many of those. Fight after fight after fight.

And the make up sex. Oh, the glorious make up sex.

They will love to no limit.

They will love with no time limit and no control.

They will have seasons of love.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Are you wiping away tears of joy? I know I am. Gah, such a pleasure to finally write romantic, happy!Fabang! They've made it guys! They have made it!

Now, now. We're not done yet. The epilogue is coming soon! We shall reserve all the hugs and kisses for then.

BUT COME ON, CAN WE REVIEW THE UNOFFICIAL CONCLUSION TO THE FABANG CHRONICLES? PLEASE?


	17. Epilogue

_Epilogue_

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><p>"It feels like high school all over again," Quinn Fabray-Chang nervously scans their surroundings, shelves of books and freshly shined frames and trophies capturing her hazel eyes.<p>

"We're at an elementary school," Mike Chang comments wryly, eyes fixated on his iPhone, as if this large dilemma didn't pose as a problem for the Fabray-Chang's. As if the fact that their demon twins decided to start a _fight club_ to be held behind the bleachers isn't something completely worrisome.

"_Mike_," snaps the blonde, reaching over for his phone sternly.

"God, lemon"

"_Focus_, lime,"

"Stop working the pregnancy hormones on over drive," he answers her simply, focusing his dark brown eyes on his wife's large belly, a hint of her sun-kissed skin capturing his eye from the bottom of his shirt. "If you continue to use that pregnant excuse any longer, it won't fly. You've had five kids already, surely that's enough to deal with the hormones,"

"Technically, I was only pregnant four times," Quinn corrects him.

Five children.

Five perfect, annoying, messy and somehow lovable children.

Five eyes to rid of tears with dancing and words taken out of whatever book Quinn is reading that day.

Five mouths to feed at all hours of the day.

Five hands to fill with the latest gadgets and toys, because heaven forbid they be behind on the latest iPod or Wii.

Five bellies to be tickled on the odd occasion they would actually allow themselves to be touched by their boring, _uncool_ parents.

Five legs to keep together during special occasions, because their father is exhausted of hearing his wife make their children's restlessness to be his fault.

Five feet to keep firmly on the ground, because even if they had every single opportunity handed to them, a beautiful large estate and Lima's most successful, world-renowned parents apart from Rachel Berry herself, it was important they remain humane. It was important they do not pride themselves in material possessions or adapt any form of prejudice.

Five bodies that climb onto their large, four posted bed, mid-foreplay and demand they retell the greatest love story ever told:

Lemon and Lime.

Of course, the second a cooties outbreak plagued the playground, they would much rather hear about ninjas.

"And _whose_ fault is that?" asks Quinn pointedly.

"I'm sorry, miss 'I want to have a girl', I believe your point is invalid," returns the dark-haired man.

"It's not my fault that every time you cum, you give me male sperm!" she exasperates, eyes blazing.

"You're horny," he answers simply.

Biting down at her lip, Quinn turns her attention back towards her large stomach, rubbing it affectionately. She avoids his knowing gaze and the burning sensation of her breasts, along with the sexiness that is Mike's lips pursed like that.

"Don't even lie, lemon. You curse like a sailor every time. Remember the night we first had sex?" the blonde's cheeks turn a deep shade of crimson, reminiscing that moment a good eighteen years ago. She chuckles thoughtfully. They had no idea what they were doing. Sometimes, Quinn even kids that she was never pleasured their first time.

But a good eighteen years later, they still know that to be a lie.

"And you still ask a truckload of questions,"

"It appears so," his body inches itself towards her, arms finding their way around her shoulders. He breathes in her perfume, legs tingling as she allows her lips to find the crook of his neck.

"Quinn…" he trails off, shutting his eyes completely.

"Yes, Mr. Chang?" she inquires tauntingly, hands sliding down his abdomen. Damn pregnancy hormones.

"P-Principal's office," Mike says, a hint of panic in his voice, but the feel of his wife's hands running up and down his chest, tackling him from the side, her stomach rubbing itself against him is too much for any man to bear.

"We're early," she whispers huskily, the hem of her floral, maternity dress riding up. He could feel her against his leg and no amount of begging in the world would get her to stop now. Nothing ever stopped Quinn. Nothing ever stopped _them_, really.

Nothing stopped them from fighting for their love all throughout senior year, despite the many conflicts thrown their way; their summer before college spent in Europe versus Asia, attending college at New York versus Los Angeles and even long distance relationships versus moving in together.

Nothing stopped them from supporting each other; Mike an aspiring dancer and Quinn an idealistic writer.

Nothing stopped them from moving to London, a compromise on both their parts, and jump starting their dreams. It didn't matter that they barely had two pounds to bring together for a cup of coffee. It didn't matter that, all throughout college, they could barely afford fashionable clothes or movies. That's what hot sex and internet piracy was for. It didn't matter that they were poor as can be and unsuccessful as hell. Or that Quinn spent most of her days working tables at a local restaurant while Mike poured alcoholic drinks at some sleazy bar. They were in love.

Nothing stopped them from being _there_ for each other. Nothing could keep Quinn away from Mike's first dance show. Nothing could keep Mike from spending evenings beside Quinn, rubbing her back affectionately as she furiously typed away whatever thought came to mind. _Nothing_.

Nothing stopped them from loving each other, even when successful novels were flying in and out of Quinn faster than Mike could perform whatever masterpiece was being applauded by the upper crust, English society. They would still bundle up and watch the stars at night. They would still eat ramen during the summers to remind themselves of Annabelle Rochester and Dylan Fields. They would still fight and make up and fight and do it all over again. They would still love to no limit.

Nothing stopped them from uprooting their growing lives in London, their successful careers and glamorous life at twenty-six to take over Camp Rochester-Fields. Or rather, inherit it. This is where they found each other. This is where they fell in love. And this is where their children would play.

Nothing stopped them from getting married at the very campsite they both know and love. As promised, Noah Puckerman stood beside Mike Chang, urging him to run away with the striper from his bachelor party. Similarly, both Rachel Berry, broadway star, and Santana Lopez, activist and government lawyer for troubled teens shared the role as maid of honor.

Nothing stopped them from building a large, classic home, like the classic people that they are, in the middle of the camp. What better place to raise a family than an eight bedroom, white estate overlooking the lake?

Nothing stopped them from having child after child after child.

They were unstoppable.

"B-But," Mike begs, to no avail as Quinn begins to undo his belt. He's all for exciting trysts, their impromptu intimate moment in Principal Figgins' office during senior prom was proof of that. But in his children's principal's office?

"Ahem," Mike's body falls down against the lush couch, Quinn pulling herself away from her husband almost immediately. They scramble to unwrinkled their clothes, flushed from head-to-toe.

"Nice to see adulthood did you two well," both pause, eyes meeting one another's. Turning their heads, a tall, grey haired woman stands in between the entrance. Shifting uncomfortably, the statuesque, pregnant blonde immediately stands up, an apologetic smile on her otherwise pale face.

"We were simply-"

"Miss Fabray, while your excuses may have flown with me when you were a child, as a mother, I expect you've come to learn the concept of taking responsibility for your actions," jaw dropping completely, the hazel-eyes woman blinks, bewildered.

"And Mr. Chang, do you not recall my no touching policy?" inquires the stern looking woman pointedly. Pulling off her spectacles, she examines the two, ignoring the confused expressions on their faces.

"I'm sorry…" the successful choreographer trails off slowly, leaning over for his wife's hand and pulling her back towards her seat gently. As Quinn sits herself back down slowly, he rubs his hand down her back, attempting to soothe the beast that is undoubtedly dying to make its way out of the blonde and attack the principal.

"It's just, the way you spoke…" he begins.

"It sounded like you knew us," supplies Quinn.

"I do," the woman answers almost immediately, sitting herself down on the leather seat.

"How?" they ask simultaneously.

"Quinn Fabray and Mike Chang, my two most… _Interesting_ students,"

"M-Miss Porter?" stutters Mike quickly, realization dawning upon him. He could see it now. Behind the wrinkles and the grey hair and the stern expression, the bright and bubbly first grade teacher straight out of teacher's college is still there. Immediately looking over at him, Quinn raises both of her perfectly plucked eyebrows curiously.

"Who?"

"Our first grade teacher," he answers.

"You mean the dragon lady?" asks the blonde bluntly.

"And here I thought you all called me the psychopath,"

"Too big a word for first graders to spell," she excuses. Coughing inwardly, Miss Porter flips open Adrian and Anton Fabray-Chang's thick files. For two ten-year-old, they have accumulated quite the record for themselves, much to the displeasure of their parents.

"Onto more important matters, as you may very well know, your children have been associated with beginning an organized physical violence program,"

"Or a fight club," Quinn corrects her snippily.

"_Or_ a fight club," condones Principal Porter. "We do not tolerate violence at this school, or students who spark such violent acts-"

"Anton and Adrian never actually hit anyone," Mike finds it imperative to mention.

"No, but promoting such a thing…"

Two hours of negotiating and a "donation" alongside the promise to keep their children out of trouble later, the dark-haired man picks up Quinn's bright yellow purse, grasping her hand and assisting her as she slowly rose from the couch, grasping her stomach. Principal Porter's striking silver orbs watch her two former students, one of the handful she could recall. There's something particularly interesting about a woman her age, a few years from retiring her post, still remembering quiet and kind Mike Chang and strong and complex Quinn Fabray from way back when.

"Thank you for your time," Mike says politely, sending the elderly woman an endearing smile.

"You two truly wound up together?" she inquires curiously, the edge and sternness vacant from her voice.

"I mean, you two were lovely children and all the signs were they, and yet…"

"You always liked to make up your own love stories, Miss Porter," Quinn begins simply, instinctively resting her hands on her stomach. "It just so happens that this one came true,"

As the couple retrieve their items and leave Principal Porter's office, she cannot help but turn her seat towards the window, smiling affectionately. Who needs a husband when you could be a witness to _true_ love, even after all of these years?

* * *

><p>"<em>But dad,<em>" whines Anton Fabray-Chang from the backseat of his father's Mercedes, chin resting against the shoulder of his father's. Those signature light brown eyes shimmer as the spring sun catches them, almost making Mike Chang condone his sons' actions.

"It's _summer_,"

"So?" asks Quinn pointedly, narrowing her eyes from the passenger's seat.

"So you _can't_ just ground us!" snaps Anton adamantly, turning to his silent, younger twin for advice. Yet the boy is far too consumed with staring out at the window shamefully to battle his parents' ruling. Turning desperately back towards his father, he pouts.

"What about Football and Ethan Hudson's party at Breadsticks?"

"No,"

"Alicia's pool party?"

"No,"

"What if I promised to clean out the tool shed?"

"Anton, last time you cleaned out the tool shed, you sold every piece of lint you could find to your friends," grumbles Dylan Fabray-Chang, the eldest of the Fabray-Chang boys, pointedly.

"He makes a good point," Mike answers simply. "Besides, any day now little Annabelle is going to be popping out of mommy. Won't an _entire_ summer looking over at your _new baby sister_ be enough?" he lays it on thick on purpose. Anton took after his mother in every sense; strong, irritable and proud.

"Dad!" Anton yells.

"Anton Alexander Fabray-Chang, tone it down," hisses Quinn, turning towards her son. Interestingly enough, the son whom Quinn shared the most with is the one she most frequently argued with.

"We had a good reason," supplies Adrian Fabray-Chang, eyes remaining lost in his own little world.

"What would that be?" asks Dylan.

"Noah needed to learn self-defense," at the mention of the fourth boy in the family, Quinn immediately whips her head back towards Anton.

"What for?" she asks immediately.

The twins look towards each other, up to their father's, towards Dylan and finally over at their mother's curious, concerned eyes. It explains everything.

After all, school is never kind to boys who prefer gushing over teen bop music with the girls than joining in with the boys for a game soccer.

"Ahem," the world-renowned writer breaks the silence, cringing as the future Annabelle Fabray-Chang kicks her. Whispering soothing words down at the fetus in her stomach, she casts her eyes towards her husband worriedly. He instinctively slides his hands into hers.

"Mike," she says quietly, away from their sons' interested ears.

"We'll talk to Noah later," he answers her almost immediately, squeezing her hand.

"So does that mean we're off the hook?" Anton's persistent voice rings into both of his parents' ears.

"Give it up, 'Ton," snaps Adrian.

"Sure," says Quinn.

"Really?"

"Right after you pay us back for all the money we just spent on you," groaning, Anton slams his back on the lush seats, arms crossed over his chest.

"But mom, dad!"

"No but's," snaps Mike, turning the wheel ever so slightly, pulling into the large campsite turned property of the Fabray-Chang's. Their grand home inevitably brings a smile upon his face.

"Come on," he whines. "Can't I just do something else?"

"Like?"

"Like… Like…" he trails off, before his light brown eyes twinkle with realization. "Can't I just love you guys?" Anton asks his parents, tone as sweet as the sugary cupcakes they had for lunch in hopes of convincing his parents otherwise. The two move their gazes towards each other, a 'we know something you don't' smirk on their older faces.

"No," they answer simultaneously.

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Because, come one, we had to work in that line at _some_ point, why not now? Le sigh, I can't believe this story has finally come to an end. Without doubt, it is probably the best work I've ever done. Not the best, but the best I have done. Though there isn't much to compare to. I know this epilogue took awhile, but with school and wanting to end things on the right note, it was difficult to put together.

There you have it, folks! Mike and Quinn have ended up together and will _soon_ have six perfect children. I simply adored writing their children in, and bringing in characters of earlier significance, like Miss Porter, the perspective in which the epilogue is written and having Annabelle and Dylan incorporated into their daily lives.

I would just like to thank everyone who supported me through this story; all the support and criticism alike shaped this story to be exactly what it is, and for that I want to thank you. This isn't the last you'll hear of me. Fabang is like my drug. Not only will I be updating, _The One That Got Away_, soon, but I will begin brainstorming on another fic. I am always open to oneshot requests, so always feel free to drop me a message! And follow my Tumblr account, where I frequently post (rant) about my stories.

Please **review**one last time! PLEASE?


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